


For Your Life

by sodium_amytal



Category: Led Zeppelin
Genre: Alternate Universe, Angst, Awkward Flirting, Developing Relationship, Drama, Humor, M/M, Romance, Supernatural Elements
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-11-09
Updated: 2014-12-10
Packaged: 2018-02-24 17:18:59
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 39,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2589788
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During the summer of ’69, Robert meets the most intriguing, attractive man he’s ever seen in his life. His name is Jimmy, and even his secrets have secrets, something Robert learns firsthand when he tries to figure out this tall, dark, mysterious bloke who’s stolen his heart. As their friendship blossoms, they find themselves falling for each other. But Jimmy’s hiding secrets that could destroy everything they’ve built. Luckily for him, Robert’s never been one to give up so easily, even if Jimmy might just know something about all the unsolved murders happening lately...</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [For Your Life](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10503699) by [leotart](https://archiveofourown.org/users/leotart/pseuds/leotart), [sodium_amytal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sodium_amytal/pseuds/sodium_amytal)



_The universe doesn't like secrets; it conspires to reveal the truth to lead you to it._

~ Lisa Unger

* * *

Robert's always been a sucker for myth and mystery.

In his youth, he pored over the pages of Tolkien's  _Lord of the Rings_ , engrossed by the lush, magical worlds crafted there. He enjoyed the comic strips in  _The Eagle_  and the issues of Marvel comics his grammar school friends procured from family who had ventured overseas to America.

Even Robert's taste in music has a mythical, mysterious flavor to it. He spent his school years enthralled with the music of blues singers, one of whom was rumored to have gained his musical talents through a crossroads pact with the devil.

Naturally, Robert thinks of all these things when he first meets the enigmatic, soft-spoken, and ridiculously attractive Jimmy. There's just something about him that springs to mind tales of lore, magical creatures, and a pinch of darkness for good measure.

Robert's right, of course. But he doesn't find out  _how_  right until much later.

* * *

It's raining in Stourbridge when Robert ducks into Groove, a newly-opened record store he's quickly dubbed his favorite of the lot. He makes the pilgrimage here every Saturday when his loathsome job as a chartered accountant grants him a day of reprieve. Here, amongst the rare and imported vinyls, Robert feels most at home. His job might be soul-sucking drudgery, and his social circle isn't as wide as it ought to be, but his love of music more than makes up for it all.

He comes here so often he recognizes most of the clientele. He's pretty sure the owner of the shop groans internally when Robert strikes up a chat with the new faces that stroll in, but Robert can't help his aggressively-social nature; he loves hearing everyone's different tastes and quirks and stories to share.

He's thumbing through the blues section, about to reach for the top of the next stack, when a pale hand to his right has the same idea. Robert jerks away, because the stranger's touch stings his hand, as if an electric current's passed through them.

"I'm sorry," the stranger mutters, pulling his hand back. Robert turns his head to look at him, and, wow, it's fucking criminal how attractive this guy is. Looking at this beautiful bloke with his artfully mussed long black hair and his tall, wiry form draped in a tan peacoat, Robert's a complete and total goner. His eyes are a stunning green, his small pink mouth shapely. Every single feature is perfect, so much so he could make Michelangelo weep for joy.

Robert's so busy staring at this gorgeous man that it takes him a moment to realize he should probably say something instead of gaping like an idiot. "Oh—no, go ahead," Robert says once he finds his voice and remembers how to breathe. "It's not often I meet someone who likes the same music I do."

Tall Dark And Handsome Bloke gives the slightest smile and destroys all coherent thought in Robert's brain.  _Oh Jesus._  "Really now? Are you a blues scholar too?" Robert tries not to stare at the way the stranger's nimble, thin fingers pluck through the stack of records.

"Since I was fourteen." Robert's not trying to impress him. Nope. No way. Not a bit.

The stranger lifts a curious eyebrow from behind his thick curtain of hair. Robert wants to reach out and tuck the locks behind his ears, just enough to see more of his perfect face. "My, that's impressive."

Not really; it's only six years. Robert's looks must belie his age, a card he's going to play very close to his chest here. He smiles at the compliment despite himself.

"Have you any favorites?" the stranger asks.

"Oh, well, you know, the usual: John Lee Hooker, Blind Lemon Jefferson, Sonny Boy Williamson, Muddy Waters, Robert Johnson—"

"Ah, the ol' King of the Delta Blues."

Robert's eyes go wide. "He's amazing, isn't he? I've never heard a voice like that."

Tall Dark and Handsome Bloke makes a quiet sound of agreement and smiles wistfully.

Robert takes a moment to appreciate his profile, then: "You're not from here, are you? I come to this shop every Saturday. Never seen you 'round before."

"How do you know I don't stop in one of the other six days of the week?" Tall Dark and Handsome Bloke says with a smirk.

Robert's face heats up. That's what he gets for trying to start a conversation.

He must notice Robert's chagrin, because he adds, "But you're right. I'm not from here. I live in Pangbourne."

That's a hell of a commute. "So what brings you all the way to Stourbridge?"

"The record selection is more in tune with my tastes," he says casually, flipping through the stack. "Or so I hear."

"Are you being intentionally punny? Because that's kind of brilliant."

There's a moment of terse silence, then the stranger laughs, his perfect teeth on display, and his eyes crinkling at the corners. God damn, is he gorgeous. He can't stop staring at the guy's lips; Robert wants to kiss him more than he wants to be successful in life.

Tall Dark and Handsome Bloke turns his head—Robert's gonna have to shorten that, because even in his head it's long—and sets his full attention on Robert, sending chills down his spine. "Is there anything worth doing 'round here besides buying records?"

Robert's mouth feels impossibly dry. TDAHB offers up another killer smile that reaches his smoldering eyes. Robert wonders if he's gone as red as he feels. "There's West Hill up by the college. 'Swhere all the best birds are."

TDAHB quirks a perfect eyebrow.

Robert realizes suggesting a place to pick up girls probably doesn't communicate that he's into dudes. So he adds, "There's some decent clubs if you go into Birmingham—the Cedar Club, the Elbow Room, Seven Stars..." TDAHB doesn't seem to be responding well to any of this. "You're not the club sort, are you? I could—I could show you 'round if you'd like." Robert winces inwardly. Why does he do stupid shit like trying to pick up this gorgeous man who's so far out of his league they're not even playing the same sport?

A smirk tugs at the corner of TDAHB's mouth. "Didn't your mother ever warn you about strangers?"

"Strangers are just friends waiting to happen," Robert says, because he's hippie garbage.

TDAHB huffs a laugh and shakes his head, like he cannot believe those words came from a real person's mouth. "Or a murder in a dark alley," he mumbles, a smirk on his luscious lips.

"You're a 'glass-half-empty' sort of bloke, aren't you?"

"I like not being murdered by overzealous strangers."

Robert panics that he's come across as overzealous. "You don't trust me?" he asks, trying very hard not to sound like he gives a shit about the answer.

"Do I have a reason to?" TDAHB says in a low, sensuous voice, gives him a twitch of a smile, and, holy shit, is TDAHB  _flirting_  with him?

Robert's brain checks out then, because he doesn't know how to handle someone this gorgeous flirting with him other than "stammer like an idiot." Sad, really. "N—no, I s'pose not." He drops his gaze to the crate of records; music's never made him stupid with his nerves fluttering and pinching his insides. "But if I knew what you like I could suggest some places."

"I read a lot."

Thank God, Robert might be able to salvage this conversation. "Oh, well, there's a bookstore not too far from here. They've got a bunch of rare stuff like limited editions and autographed copies. There's a signed  _Fellowship of the Rings_  I've had my eye on, but it costs a mint." Robert thinks he should shut the fuck up and give TDAHB a chance to talk. "What do you read?"

"A little bit of everything." The bastard's messing with him, trying to make Robert feel awkward with all these non-answers. And, fuck, it's working.

"Have you read the  _Evermore_  series?" Robert blurts out. TDAHB gives him a bemused look, and Robert runs with it. "Oh, it's amazing! These two blokes travel 'round England in the Middle Ages and investigate paranormal myths and legends. My favorite is the one where they go to Cadair Idris in Wales—I used to go there on holiday when I was younger—and it centers on the legend of how anyone who sleeps the night on its slopes is destined to wake as a poet or a madman."

Robert's acutely aware of how much he gesticulates when he talks. He shoves his hands into his pockets to make himself stop.

TDAHB's smile grows until crinkles form at the corners of his eyes, and Robert thinks he's said something good to make him smile like that. "Sounds worth a look."

Robert lets TDAHB browse the rest of the shop, though his urge to follow him around and chat is maddening. But he fights it, because he's  _so_  not overzealous. He can be casual and cool when he wants to be. Even if every thought in his head centers on what else he can say to bring a smile to TDAHB's face. He hopes TDAHB doesn't leave the shop without at least telling Robert his name; Robert wants to put a name to the face he'll be jerking off to for the forseeable future.

Robert's in the middle of brainstorming a discreet way to slip TDAHB his number when he feels a presence sidle up beside him. TDAHB's standing there, his hands shoved into his coat pockets like he's waiting for a bus.

"Do you always sneak up on people?" Robert asks, because this is the second time TDAHB's materialized at his side. It's starting to get creepy.

"You can't blame me for your own inability to be aware of your surroundings," he says, but there's a soft, teasing edge to it. "But I suppose someone who claims 'strangers are just friends waiting to happen' isn't too concerned about shady characters lurking in their midst."

Robert looks at him and is immediately dazzled. His tongue feels heavy, weighted with nerves. "You admit you're a shady character who lurks?"

A short laugh punches out of TDAHB, and Robert loves the sound of it. "What if I rang you instead of lurking? Would that be preferable?"

Robert feels his heart in his throat, fights the grin threatening to spread on his lips. Looking at TDAHB's gorgeous face makes him nervous, and when was the last time Robert was ever scared to talk to someone? What is it about this guy that twists him up inside, makes his heart pound like he's a million miles above the ground?

TDAHB withdraws a note from his pocket and hands it to Robert. Robert unfolds the slightly wrinkled paper and sees letters and numbers written in a flourish of green ink. Christ, even his handwriting is perfect. Happiness blooms in his chest, because he's scored TDAHB's phone number. There's something written above the number that makes Robert smile like his heart's about to burst:  _your pal, Jimmy._

TDAHB has now become Jimmy. Kind of a plain, ordinary name for someone who is none of those things, but it's not like his parents could have anticipated he'd grow up to be the most beautiful man Robert's ever seen.

"Jimmy, huh?" Robert says with a smirk. That certainly rolls off the tongue much easier than Tall Dark And Handsome Bloke, but he's got enough of a verbal filter not to let that one slip out. "I'm Robert." He thinks about offering his hand, but he might burst into flames if he gets to touch Jimmy, so he pockets the note instead. "Can I call you Jim-Jam?" he teases, because Jimmy's already given Robert his number; there's no backing out now. He can be as ridiculously himself as he wants.

Jimmy glares at him through long eyelashes. There's a youthful roundness to his features, and Robert wonders if they're the same age. "Only if I can call you Bob."

Robert frowns. "Jimmy it is, then."

Jimmy smirks, and Robert can't help but smile back.

He totally doesn't fistpump the air in triumph once Jimmy leaves the shop. Not at all.

* * *

Robert jerks off in the shower once he gets home to his flat.

He doesn't worry about stamina or making it good, just wants to get rid of this goddamn erection that's been plaguing him since he first laid eyes on Jimmy. He suffered through it on the train ride back home, his mind bubbling over with thoughts of how Jimmy might look when he comes. But now he's in the privacy of his own bathroom, and Bonzo knows enough to know whatever Robert rushed in here for isn't something he wants to see.

Robert whimpers a choked sound into the tile, his hand shifting and sliding and stroking. His hips push forward, and he imagines he's thrusting into Jimmy's fist, which makes each squeeze feel obscene as he breathes Jimmy's name out against the wet tile.

When he comes it's electric, sparks firing behind his eyes in a sea of white, and Robert slumps, spent, evidence of his lust swirling down the drain.

He throws his clothes back on, wrings the water out of his hair, and steps out.

Bonzo's lying on the couch, doing his best to look enthralled in a magazine and not at all like he wants to be bothered with the minutiae of Robert's love life. But Bonzo shares the often-pornographic details of his dates, so Robert thinks he can handle this. Besides, Bonzo's one of the few friends Robert trusts enough with the fact that he's into dudes.

"I met the most gorgeous man on the planet today."

Bonzo makes a noise, as if that sentence explains why Robert suddenly rushed home for a shower. And, yeah, it kind of does.

"His name's Jimmy," Robert says, trying casual, but the blush creeping over his cheeks gives him away. "He's got an amazing smile, and his eyes are, well, they're dazzling, really. And his hair is huge and fluffy and I really want to touch it at some point. Is that weird? I think that's weird. It shouldn't be weird. I'd let him touch mine if he wanted." Robert's entirely aware of the innuendo laced through that sentence, and he doesn't disagree with it.

Bonzo lowers the magazine to fix Robert with the appropriate amount of disapproval. "You're gushing, and it's making me question your sanity."

"You'd gush too if you saw him. He's  _beautiful_ ," Robert says, stressing the word. "You look at him and it's like...  _how_?"

"I'm so glad you're not shallow."

Robert frowns. "He's not just gorgeous. He's funny, charming, and likes the same music I do. And"—Robert reaches into his jeans' pocket—"he gave me his number!" He holds out the slip of paper so Bonzo can see. "Look, even his handwriting is perfect."

Bonzo examines the note with suspicion. "Where'd you meet him?"

"The Groove."

"Oh no," Bonzo groans. "This could be a warning sign of complete and utter insanity. He talked with you at a record shop and still gave you his number? Obviously the bloke's not workin' with a full deck of cards." Because Bonzo's seen Robert's embarrassing, overzealous displays of enthusiasm when it comes to discussing music—or anything, really. Hell, hadn't Jimmy even used the word "overzealous" to describe him?

Bonzo makes a face. "You didn't tell him about Obs-Tweedle, did you?" Obs-Tweedle is the name of their band—Bonzo on drums, Robert on vocals. They're nothing huge, but they play to small crowds on Saturdays at local pubs.

"I didn't want to come on too strong."

"Yeah, we wouldn't want that."

Robert pouts at him.

"Just be careful. He could be a total nutter."

"I suppose you think he's crazy because he's interested in me?"

"I'm not going to answer that."

Robert huffs and storms away. Bonzo might find a deranged kind of pleasure in taking the piss out of him, but that doesn't mean Robert has to like it.


	2. Chapter 2

Robert's sprawled dramatically on his bed Sunday morning after breakfast, staring at the phone and trying to find the courage to ring Jimmy. This shouldn't be so hard. People do this all the time. Even Robert's done this plenty, though he's never dated anyone who could give furniture multiple orgasms just by sitting on it.

Jimmy seems to like Robert enough to give him his number, which is a whole new level of confusing Robert doesn't know how to deal with. Robert's never been the thing people like Jimmy take chances on. But if he doesn't do anything Jimmy's never going to talk to him again because he doesn't have Robert's number. So he should probably grow a pair and just dial the fucking number already.

He reaches for the receiver and pauses. What should he say? He can't just ring Jimmy for a friendly chat; he ought to have a destination in mind, someplace they could go together that's not too date-like, but intimate enough that they could connect a little more.

They could see a movie. Robert doesn't think Jimmy will balk at that. Most people enjoy a cinematic adventure. But what if Jimmy hates movies? Maybe Robert should have a back-up date in case Jimmy's irrational movie-hatred nixes his first idea.

When the hell did dating get so damn complicated?

Jimmy mentioned he likes to read; maybe Robert could show him around the bookstore he told him about. That seems casual enough, but also too much like their record store meeting, just a different backdrop for the same thing. Fuck it; it's a decent back-up plan that shows Robert was paying attention to Jimmy's likes and dislikes. If Jimmy vetoes that one, he'll just have to suggest something himself.

Robert picks up the receiver and dials the number. His heart slams against his ribs with each ring. There's still time to hang up and pretend this never happened, time to reconvene and come up with rebuttals for every roadblock Jimmy throws his way—

"Hello?"

Fuck. Out of time. Robert makes a choked noise of panic and horror in his throat. His fingers clamp around the plastic receiver until he can't feel them anymore. He manages to squeak out, "Jimmy? It's Robert." Christ, why is he allowed to do things? His life is an embarrassment.

Robert hears a smile curl around Jimmy's voice when he says, "Oh, what a surprise. I was beginning to think you wouldn't ring."

"It's only Sunday."

"You made a very zealous first impression," Jimmy says, and, shit, Robert  _knew_  he came on too strong.

"Sorry," he mumbles. He's glad Jimmy can't see the way his face flushes red.

"Don't be. I appreciate a passionate soul."

Wow. Robert's stomach goes deliciously tight and fluttery all at once. After a brief moment of silent exaltation, he says, "Do you, uh, if you're not busy, would you like to meet up again? Maybe the bookstore I mentioned before?" Robert really hit the awkward and indecisive jackpot there.

He doesn't know why that tumbled out of his mouth, but Jimmy's "passionate soul" comment struck him as poetic, and his brain figured Jimmy might enjoy something more cerebral than a movie.

Either that or Robert's a total moron. He doesn't want to be a moron.

But Jimmy doesn't sound like he's on the brink of a mocking "seriously?" or a polite refusal. "I suppose I wouldn't mind," he says, the smile lilting his voice into gentle teasing.

Robert takes advantage of the fact that Jimmy can't see him and fistpumps the air. He gives Jimmy the address and promises to meet him at the bus stop.

Robert's got no idea how he managed to score a date with Jimmy—because it's  _totally_  a date—but it gives him a renewed burst of confidence, a fluttery euphoria in his gut that has him singing to himself as he sorts through his closet for something to wear. He doesn't even fret too much about his choice of clothes, because Jimmy obviously deemed him acceptable when he hadn't been dressed to the nines. So Robert throws on a t-shirt and a pair of dark trousers, fusses with his hair for fifteen minutes before deciding, "screw it," and heading out.

Bonzo's sitting at the table, sipping his morning tea and giving Robert a questioning look over the paper. "Where are you off to?"

Robert opens his mouth, closes it, figures there's no harm in being honest. "I have a date," he says, adds, "With Jimmy," and, man, he  _cannot_  stop smiling about that.

Bonzo furrows his eyebrows. "You look like jailbait."

Robert frowns, glances down at his attire. He doesn't think his trousers are that tight, and, sure, maybe his shirt's a little short and rides up a bit whenever he, well,  _moves_ , but Bonzo's never complained about it before. "I'm not, you know."

" _He_  doesn't. He could be a pervert, gets his kicks from the underage crowd."

"Well, joke's on him, then, isn't it?"

Robert moves for the door, but Bonzo's voice stops him. "You're not going to his place, are you?"

"No," Robert says, indignant. "We're meeting at Bookengard." Yes, the name of the bookstore is a  _Lord of the Rings_  reference; Robert's mate Maureen runs the place and may have lost a bet one night requiring her to christen the shop with Robert's awful moniker. She's forgiven him since.

Bonzo huffs air through his nose, like he wants to protest but doesn't know how. "You're bringing him 'round to Maureen? As if one enthusiastic hippie in his life wasn't enough."

"He likes books," Robert offers lamely.

Bonzo sighs, paper half-crumpling under his fingers. "Just be careful."

"What's the worst that could happen?"

"He kills you and dumps your body in the Thames." Robert glares at him under his eyebrows. "Sorry," Bonzo says. "The news is glum today."

"Just because a gorgeous man is interested in me doesn't mean he's a bloody murderer," Robert shoots back. "I s'pose by that logic your Pat ought to be looked at a little closer!"

"Pat is a  _delight_!" Bonzo roars as Robert shuts the door behind him.

The air's just a pinch humid today, but there's enough of a breeze that it doesn't bother him. He makes it to the bus stop where he told Jimmy to meet him, casually flips through a newspaper left on the bench. The front page story gives details on a gruesome murder in Birmingham. The victim is a well-to-do banker who'd made his fortune early in life but never had a family to speak of, no wife or children in the picture.

Not many details about the murder are known, just that the victim was discovered Saturday afternoon by a neighbor, and died from "excessive slashes, as if from claws." None of the victim's personal items seem to be missing, though there were signs of forced entry. The article goes on to mention similar murders over the years in London, Liverpool, Exeter, Leeds, and even as far as Edinburgh. None have been solved. Robert doesn't know what to make of that, if there's some mysterious, violent creature roaming around, or if this is the work of a traveling mass murderer.

He busies himself with more optimistic stories instead.

It takes some time, but eventually the proper bus arrives and Jimmy steps off, dressed in dark jeans and a sweatervest. His long sleeves are rolled up around his forearms, and Robert ignores the way his mouth's gone dry at the sight. Seriously, how is it even possible to have such bodily and facial perfection all at once? It's not fair.

Jimmy smiles at him, approaching the bench. Robert decides to start off with a joke and tries to sound like a normal human being when he says, "Did you just come from grammar school?"

Jimmy smirks. "That depends. Did you steal that shirt from your little sister's wardrobe?"

Robert pouts, his face going red as he surreptitiously tugs the edge of his shirt down. He can never be sure if Jimmy's teasing him playfully or just being an ass.

"I'm joking, of course," Jimmy says. "It's very manly."

Now Robert  _knows_  Jimmy's fucking with him. No shirt with flowers on it is considered manly. He stands up, ignoring the urge to tug his shirt down again. "Shall we go?"

Bookengard isn't too far from the bus stop, and Robert leads the way, lets Jimmy trail him on the skinny sidewalk. Robert feels eyes on him and wonders if Jimmy's staring at his ass. It's a nice ass, he thinks, so he wouldn't be surprised. But Robert wants to know more about Jimmy, so he says, "What's Pangbourne like?"

"It's nice, I suppose," Jimmy says, which is a total non-answer. "I have a lovely view of the Thames."

Bonzo's earlier offhanded comment pops into Robert's head. No, that's ridiculous. This angel-faced demi-god couldn't possibly have a mean bone in his body, much less a murderous one. He's probably just awkward and poorly-socialized, which explains the lurking. Poor thing.

"That sounds exquisite."

Jimmy makes a sound of assent. "It's very relaxing."

"Did you grow up there?"

"No, I'm from Epsom. Pangbourne's quite the change from golf courses and horse stables." The faint trace of a smile lightens his face.

"And quite the distance, isn't it? What made you move there?" Robert tries to keep his voice at a normal, not-dying-to-know-your-secrets range.

"I like the solitude," Jimmy says. "A lot of people can't be on their own. They get frightened. But isolation doesn't bother me at all. It gives me a sense of security."

Robert's stomach flutters with butterflies. Jimmy is so intelligent and reticent in a way that makes Robert want to know more, but he doesn't want to seem too forceful.

"What about you?" Jimmy asks. "I'm sure I'll enjoy listening to you more than talking about myself."

They reach the bookstore, and Robert knocks on the door. The shop appears closed, but he knows Maureen comes in on Sundays to catalogue in peace.

"I think it's closed," Jimmy says.

"I know the owner. She ought to be here." Through the glass window in the door, he can see her moving to answer.

Jimmy huffs amusement. "I feel like I'm at a speakeasy."

Maureen throws open the door and glares when she sees Robert standing there. "Robert Anthony Plant, what are you doing here?"

Jimmy snorts a laugh, sounding in no way undignified.

Maureen's angry expression melts away when she sees Jimmy. "Oh, excuse me, I didn't know you'd brought a friend." She extends a hand. "I'm Maureen."

Jimmy accepts the handshake and introduces himself like a gentleman. Maureen may actually  _swoon_.

"Won't you come in?" She holds the door open for them and ushers them inside. The shop is cozy and dimly-lit, shelves upon shelves stuffed with books. The scent of Nag Champa flows through the air. "So, Jimmy, I haven't seen you 'round here before."

"I'm not from Stourbridge. Robert offered to show me around."

"Of course he did," Maureen says, a mischievous smile in her voice. "Would you mind if I borrowed him for a minute?"

"Not at all. I'll take a look around." Jimmy makes himself scarce and disappears into the maze of bookshelves before Robert can protest. Maureen wraps a hand around Robert's elbow, guides him toward the rear of the store and into the back room.

"So," she says once they're alone, dragging out the word. "Who's Jimmy?"

"A friend."

"Maybe a  _boy_ friend?" she trills.

"He's a boy who happens to be my friend," Robert insists, but his level-four cheek redness probably isn't helping his argument.

Maureen crosses her arms under her chest. "Uh-huh. You fancy him, don't you?"

Robert groans, drags a hand over his face and looks away. It's the obvious conclusion, because he's never brought anyone to the shop while it's closed. Maureen must assume he wants privacy and solitude, and she's not wrong. "Why do I think you're enjoying this?"

"Because I am." She smiles. "He's very cute. You have good taste." Her eyes widen in surprise, as if she's just suddenly realized something. "Are you on a date together?"

Robert winces at the volume of her voice. "In a very casual sense of the word, yes. I would appreciate it if you didn't embarrass me." A futile request, really.

"What good is having an encyclopedic knowledge of your failures if I can't entertain myself with it?"

Robert frowns at her. "You're an evil woman. You know this is the only chance I'll ever have to date someone as insanely hot as Jimmy, right?"

Maureen scoffs. "Are you mad? You're gorgeous. And you've got this fairy prince thing going that a bloke could be into."

Robert's not entirely sure he wants to be compared to a fairy prince—that sounds like the dorkiest thing on the planet—but if it's something Jimmy might find appealing...

He huffs a breath. "Just—try not to humiliate me, okay?"

"I make no promises."

Robert finds Jimmy thumbing through the books on the mystery fiction shelves. He sidles up to him and pretend he's interested in the stories there. "You like mysteries?"

"Everyone could use a bit of mystery in their lives," Jimmy says. He's a master of answering questions and saying nothing at all; it's actually kind of amazing.

"Are you ever going to give me a real answer instead of all this cryptic bollocks?"

"Maybe if I knew more about you," Jimmy hints. And, yeah, Robert did sort of avoid offering up any personal information, but that's not his fault.

"What would you like to know?"

Jimmy studies him with curious eyes. "How long have you lived here?"

"Well, I don't live  _here_ , actually. I live in Stourport, but there's no good shops there. I've only been there a few years though," Robert admits. "I used to live in Kidderminster with my parents until I left home." Robert's voice sounds sad even in his own ears.

"You miss them, don't you?" Jimmy asks, misinterpreting the crux of Robert's gloom.

"It's... complicated."

Jimmy turns to face him; Robert finds it's easy to get distracted when he's staring at Jimmy's lovely face. "I can keep up."

"I left home when I was seventeen. My parents want me to study accounting—which is what I do now—but that's not the life I want for myself. I want to do something grand and amazing with music. But they don't encourage or support me. They say there's no money in it. But you can't give up something you really believe in for financial reasons, you know?"

Jimmy looks fascinated by Robert's words, and a little distraught, too. "What do you play?"

"I don't. I sing."

Jimmy lifts his eyebrows in surprise. "Why am I just now hearing this?"

"Everyone can use a little mystery, right?"

Lo and behold, Jimmy actually grins at that. "How old are you, Robert?"

His heart skips a beat or two at the sound of his name on Jimmy's lips, but Robert fears he's come across as a mindless, airheaded teenager. "Twenty."

"You seem older."

Robert breathes out a quiet sigh of relief. "Do I? Most of the time I feel like a bloody child."

"In some ways, yes," Jimmy says with a teasing smirk, "in others, not so much."

Robert wants to know all the ways he strikes Jimmy as mature, but like hell he's going to ask. He seems to be pretty good at impressing Jimmy without trying; any insight into the process would probably be disastrous.

So of course Robert does something that's going to land him right in the "ridiculous manchild" category. "Can I show you something?"

Jimmy's mouth quirks into an adorable little half-smile—except Robert's not the type to use words like "adorable" so he totally wouldn't describe it that way—and Robert leads him through the bookshelf maze to the fantasy/science fiction section. It only takes him a second or two to find what he's looking for, and he pulls the first novel of the  _Evermore_  series from the shelf and shoves it into Jimmy's hands while trying his hardest not to blush.

"Just read it. You'll thank me later," Robert says.

Jimmy chuckles, and there's an edge to his laughter. "Will I?"

"You like mystery, right? This has plenty of it. There's adventure, suspense, romance—"

A bemused smile crosses Jimmy's lips. "Romance?"

"Well, it's mostly subtext," Robert mutters, because he's  _so_  not telling Jimmy his theory about how the two main characters totally have a thing for each other. Because, yeah, they're brother and sister, and any sexual tension was probably coincidental. "But—but I think you'll enjoy it. All the other stuff, I mean."

Robert realizes he's told Jimmy fuck-all about the books. "But anyway, it's about the curse of Cardoness Castle in Anwoth, which is neat because a family curse is kind of the main theme of the whole series; the main characters' parents died by the hand of a demon or a ghost—they're trying to find out what exactly it was—so that leads them into investigating all these paranormal sites. The second one,  _Black Mountain Side_ , is the one I told you about where they visit Cadair Idris. And the third is  _Houses of the Holy_ , about an Essex church haunted by unknown spectres. Well, they  _are_  known, but I don't want to spoil it for you—"

"Robert."

How the hell does his name sound so good when Jimmy says it? Robert shuts up immediately, his mouth sort of hanging open.

"I'm sure I'll love it," Jimmy assures him in a voice as smooth as melting honey.

Robert believes him.

They spend a good while chatting blithely as Jimmy glides through the shelves and recommends some of his own favorite books, which Robert thinks might be some sort of payback for rambling about  _Evermore._  But the joke's on Jimmy, because Robert's reading the fuck out of these books, eager to know the stories in Jimmy's head.

"Do your parents still live in Epsom?" Robert asks during a lull in the conversation. He just needs something to get Jimmy talking again, because he doesn't know what to do or how to act when they're not.

Jimmy looks surprised that Robert even remembers that little detail. "Y—yes."

"Do you get on with them?" Robert's got a hunch that Jimmy might have moved to Pangbourne to put some distance between himself and his family.

Jimmy smiles, though there's an edge of sadness to it. "Of course. I couldn't imagine two better people. I'm very lucky."

Robert wasn't expecting such an adulatory answer. "What about siblings? Do you have brothers or sisters?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "Just me. Perhaps that's why they dote on me so often. I'm all they've got." His voice has a strange unsteadiness to it, and Robert decides not to poke at the topic anymore. For all he knows, Jimmy's parents could have recently died.

But Robert can't help but feel a pang of bitterness; as an only child, Jimmy clearly has— _had_?—very supportive, loving parents, eager to encourage him in... whatever the hell he does. But Robert's parents shun his love of music, push him into a career he loathes instead of supporting his heart's desire.

"They sound lovely," Robert says as they move toward the front of the shop, because confessing his own jealousy probably wouldn't go down very well.

"They are. I owe them everything." He sounds like he means it.

Maureen smiles at Jimmy as he and Robert approach the counter. "Don't worry about it, sweetie. It's on the house."

"Thank you, you're an angel—"

She shoots Robert a glare, shutting him up. "Not you. You still owe me for nearly offing the whole lot of us last week with dinner."

Robert rolls his eyes. "You can't kill someone with curry."

"You bloody well tried!" Maureen turns her gaze to Jimmy, who's trying very hard not to laugh, but he's no good at it. "Ask him about the Tikka Masala Debacle of '67."

Robert scowls, feels a stage five blush creeping over his cheeks. "Your father's the one who keeps inviting me over and letting me in the kitchen," he reminds her. "Maybe he hates you."

Maureen ignores him, focusing on Jimmy instead. "If Robert ever invites you to his flat for dinner, say no. Unless you want to punish your taste buds."

"I'm right here," Robert says, petulant, because he  _cannot_  believe she's doing this. But he can't be too upset about it because Jimmy looks adorable trying not to laugh at him, one side of his bottom lip pulled into his mouth by his teeth.

Maureen gives Robert a saccharine, fake smile. "I'm going to keep talking until you pay me."

Robert huffs, digs out the proper amount from his wallet. "Oh, blackmail, that's always nice."

Maureen takes his money with glee. "And reliable."

"Why are you so mean to me? Your parents think I'm a delight."

"My father calls you 'Elbows.'"

To his right, Robert hears Jimmy snicker. Fucking traitor.

"And I wear that nickname like a badge of honor."

Maureen rolls her eyes. "Alright, Elbows, get out of here, and take your cute friend with you."

Jimmy's still chuckling as they leave the shop; Robert would be offended if Jimmy's smile didn't warm him to the core. It's almost like watching a sunrise. "You two have quite the rapport," Jimmy says. "Are you and her"—he makes vague motions with his hands—"together?"

Robert tries to ignore the flail of hope in his chest that Jimmy might be curious if he's single. "No, no, God, no. She's the annoying sister I never wanted."

Jimmy glances off for a second as if in thought. There's a brief moment of silence that Robert doesn't know how to fill. But he doesn't have to, because Jimmy says, "Excuse me for a tic," and casually slips back into the shop.

Robert's mouth drops open, and his heart plummets into his stomach; it's probably somewhere on the concrete now, laid to waste near his shoes.

Of course Jimmy isn't interested in him. Robert's a gangly, naïve hippie who can't control his limbs or his mouth. And even if he weren't, Jimmy clearly isn't gay or even harboring a passing curiousity about other men. Robert's shit out of luck here, and he kind of hates himself for ever believing he wasn't.

The petty, cruel part of him hopes Maureen turns Jimmy down, if only because visiting the shop or her house will be unimaginably awkward if she's dating Jimmy. But of course she won't say no; Jimmy will work his beautiful-person voodoo on her, and one of Robert's best mates will start dating his crush.

Robert must have seriously shitty karma.

He waits outside the shop while time seems to stand still. The door opens, and Jimmy emerges a moment later, smiling to himself; Robert wishes that smile were for him. Jimmy's eyes fly to Robert's own, and the levity on his face falls away. "Are you alright?"

Robert swallows the lump in his throat. "I'm fine." He ought to invest in a t-shirt with those words printed on the front; he imagines he'll be saying them quite often around Jimmy. "Would you—would you care for lunch? Or do you have to get back home?"

One side of Jimmy's mouth quirks up, like he's flattered to even be asked. "Lunch is good."

They find a café around the corner and share a light lunch, because Robert doesn't have much money on him, but he doesn't want Jimmy to pay for their date—he's  _so_  calling it a date in his head. He's not even that hungry, just wants an excuse to prolong his time with Jimmy. If Jimmy realizes Robert's ploy, he's quite respectful about it; he doesn't look like he's scanning the place for all possible exits. It's almost like he actually enjoys Robert's company.

The table serves as a gap between them, maintaining personal space bubbles, and Robert finds it a bit easier to make conversation now that he's not close enough to feel Jimmy's body heat.

"So, you're a singer?" Jimmy asks with a teasing smile. "Am I ever going to hear you sing?"

Robert hopes he's not as red as he feels. "Maybe," he mumbles, fussing with his teacup. God, is Jimmy actually  _interested_  in him? "If you want."

"I want." A shot of heat goes through Robert's stomach at the timbre of Jimmy's voice.

Robert remembers how to make words come out of his mouth instead of stunned noises. "This Saturday evening in Walsall. West Midlands College. You should come. You'll enjoy it."

Jimmy smirks at Robert's confidence. "Oh? Are you any good?"

"I think so." They're on comfortable territory now, so Robert's not discomforted to boast a little. "My mate plays the drums. We've got a pretty solid repertoire."

Jimmy looks impressed. "How's your guitarist?"

Robert picks up on that conversational seed. "You play?"

"I was a session guitarist for quite a while," Jimmy admits with caution, casually sipping at his tea. "Actually, some time ago I played in a band."

Robert doesn't know where to start: that Jimmy has musical talent or that he doesn't play anymore. "Anyone I've ever heard of?"

Jimmy huffs a laugh. "We didn't play  _well_. Maybe we could have made it big, but I chose to opt out for personal reasons." Robert can already tell that's a sensitive topic just by the tone of Jimmy's voice.

"I'd love to hear you play sometime," Robert says. He doesn't say, "We'd make beautiful music together" out loud, but he's sure as hell thinking it, thinking it so hard it could manifest into an embarrassing neon sign above his head.

He seems to have amused Jimmy with his eagerness, because Jimmy's doing that half-smile thing again. "You first."

Robert pouts at him but doesn't contest the stipulation. If embarrassing himself gets Jimmy to open up and reveal his hopes and dreams, Robert thinks that's a fair price.

Jimmy sips at his tea; Robert doesn't understand how he drinks it without even one sugar. He's got to be some sort of mutant. "Is your culinary prowess really as abysmal as Maureen says?" Jimmy asks.

"She's prone to exaggeration."

"So, the Tikka Masala Debacle of '67: fact or fiction?"

"I don't even know what you're talking about," Robert grumbles, sinking a little in his seat.

Jimmy chuckles to himself.

"Bonzo doesn't complain on my nights to make dinner."

"Bonzo?" Jimmy lifts an eyebrow. "Your dog?"

Robert laughs. "No, my flatmate. He's become the big brother I never knew I needed, honestly. Which I think is unfair, because he's barely any older than me."

"I suppose someone who claims 'strangers are just friends waiting to happen' is in need of a bit of social guidance."

Robert pouts. "You're never going to let that go, are you?"

"Absolutely not," Jimmy says with a grin before taking another sip of tea. "I've never met anyone with such a blatant disregard for their own safety. It's refreshing, really."

"I can't help that I like people," Robert says, staring at nothing in particular on the table. "Everyone can't be bad, you know. You're not."

Jimmy gives him a sad smile. "Be careful with that. It could hurt you."

"Now who sounds like a big brother?"

"I do have a few years on you."

Robert tilts his head, like a dog hearing a strange sound. "How many, if you don't mind me asking?" Jimmy's youthful face belies his age, but the way he speaks hints that he's older than he seems.

"I'm twenty-five."

"Oh." Robert's not going to deny that the age gap between them is unspeakably hot. "You—you look younger." He briefly considers the possibility of Jimmy being a vampire, bitten at nineteen and retaining his youthful looks for eternity.

Robert really needs to stop reading fantasy stories, damn it.

"You're not the first person to tell me that," Jimmy says, the corner of his mouth turned up. "But thank you."

Before they're about to leave, Jimmy excuses himself from the table. Robert watches him disappear into the restroom. When Jimmy's out of sight, Robert borrows a pen from the front of the café and returns to their table. He scribbles his phone number onto a crisp, clean napkin, writes, "your pal, Robert" afterward. He slips the note into Jimmy's copy of  _Evermore_ , between pages already bookmarked by another scrap of paper Robert's assuming is Maureen's phone number. Why else would Jimmy ask if she's single then dart back into the store?

Robert pushes the insecurity out of his head. He's given Jimmy his number and invited him to his next show. The rest is up to fate.


	3. Chapter 3

Robert doesn't hear from Jimmy for almost a week, which he tries very hard not to think about. He briefly entertained the thought of Jimmy being too busy with Maureen to make a phone call, but he knows Maureen. She's absolutely the type to call him and rub the whole affair in his face. But she hasn't, so Robert doesn't think that's what's going on.

Robert knows Jimmy can't be expected to call him on a regular basis, because Jimmy's got a life of his own that doesn't revolve around Robert. Just as Robert's too exhausted after work to do much of anything, Jimmy might have the same fatigue. Okay, so Robert doesn't know what Jimmy actually  _does_ , but it's a likely possibility. Jimmy could have other friends or obligations that rank higher than the loony hippie he met in a record store.

But Robert's getting the sinking feeling that Jimmy's avoiding him. Maybe he did or said something wrong, something to make Jimmy reconsider their whole awkward friendship. Robert's not even close to hot enough to have landed a friend like Jimmy; clearly their camaraderie had been a fluke.

Robert loses his job on Wednesday, which is just icing on top of the tragedy cake. Half of him is relieved, because that job was horrible, but the other half of him fears what his father will say when he finds out—which he inevitably will, considering he got Robert the job.

Fuck. This is so unfair.

As expected, Robert's parents drop by the flat on Friday; they called the day before, so Bonzo's made himself scarce—Robert's parents aren't Bonzo's biggest fans, mostly because he always smells like he's saturated in marijuana fumes.

But Robert wishes Bonzo were here now, because facing down the judgemental stares of his parents alone is kind of a bummer.

Robert forces himself to be jovial when he opens the door. "Mumsie! Popsicle!" Laying it on a little thick, but whatever.

They look at him like they fear he may be brain-damaged; Robert's not entirely sure he isn't. "It's good to see you too," Dad says. Mum goes in for a hug, while Dad opts for a casual shoulder-pat. Robert wonders if Dad was properly socialized as a child.

"You're looking well," Mum says. She glances around the flat. "Where's your flatmate?"

"He's, um, out." Robert's not being vague for the sake of hiding Bonzo's whereabouts; he really has no fucking idea where the guy is. "Would you like some tea?"

"No, thank you, dear." They sit on the couch, as if forming a unified front and preparing to bombard him with questions and thinly-veiled accusations that he's throwing his life away. "How have you been?"

"Good, I suppose. All things considering." He's not going to pretend they haven't heard about his unemployment status. The cat's way the fuck out of the bag there. "I've got a show coming up tomorrow night." It's impossible to hide the excitement in his voice, so he doesn't even try. "At the West Midlands College in Walsall."

Dad does that tight-lipped, furrowed-brow expression he does when he's questioning all of Robert's life choices. "Have you started looking for work?"

"Well, no, not yet, but I make a decent amount at gigs. Besides, this could be a chance to throw myself fully into my passion."

Their expressions shift into soft-edged disapproval. "Is that really best?" Mum asks. Oh boy. Here it comes. "As much as we want you to be happy, we also want you not to worry about keeping a roof over your head."

"This life of a musician," Dad says, "it's not financially sound."

"I know," Robert protests. "That's not why I'm doing it." He feels like they've had this conversation over and over, different combinations of the same words and never getting it right. Robert doesn't understand why his father, once a keen violinist, casts disdain on the same passion burning in his own son. "You used to love music."

"I love my family more," Dad says, and Robert shuts his eyes so he can roll them without getting cuffed on the back of the head. "I had to provide for them."

"I only provide for myself," Robert points out, because if the best time to indulge in your possibly fruitless passions isn't when you're unattached, then when?

"You're not seeing anyone?" Mum asks, disappointment in her voice.

Robert frowns. "Not at the moment." As much as he likes dating, he appreciates his freedom too. He shrugs. "I don't mind being alone. I like it. I like to need things." Hadn't Jimmy said something similar?

Robert's very familiar with the looks they're giving him right now. Mum's got that "you poor thing" look going on, while Dad's opted for the "your life choices keep me up at night" glower. Robert's been putting up with this for years now; it's all a recipe for piss-poor self-esteem. He's got no idea how his boundless optimism was ever borne out of this enviroment.

"You're throwing your life away," Dad says, matter-of-factly, and, yep, there it is. Robert thinks about crafting a "parental disapproval" bingo card to use each time he talks to them. He's not sure what the prize would be for winning, but he might as well turn it into a game, seeing as he'll never change their minds. "We want so much more for you than this."

"But it makes me happy," Robert pleads. "Isn't that enough?"

He can't help but feel a wave of bitter jealousy over Jimmy's picture-perfect parental situation. Jimmy spoke of them with reverence, the way devout people speak of their gods. They must have been unimaginably supportive of his endeavors to earn that kind of love. Of course, Robert loves his parents dearly, but the support he needs from them is absent. They've don't attend his shows or urge him to follow his dreams—only the dreams that are financially reasonable.

Clearly, Robert's happiness isn't enough, because his parents spend a good fifteen minutes trying to convince him to stay in the exciting, fast-paced world of accounting. For the sake of his own sanity, Robert tells them he'll consider it, anything to get them to leave, because he feels like crying from the futility of it all.

Robert leaves a note for Bonzo and darts off to a local pub after his parents leave. He's past the point of caring about falling into the cliché of drowning one's sorrows. Usually he's pretty good at focusing on the positives in his life, but everything's piling up all at once. His parents loathe his aspirations to be a musician, he's out of a steady job, his roommate and best friend disapproves of his harmless crush on Jimmy, and Jimmy's probably never going to speak to him again.

Robert deserves a pint or two.

Later in the evening, Bonzo finds him just a bit sloshed and singing "Piece of My Heart" to the accompaniment of a halfway-decent piano player. Christ Almighty. To his credit, Bonzo waits until Robert's finished with the song before dragging him away. Robert staggers a bit as Bonzo leads him by the arm to an empty row of barstools. "Careful, careful!" Robert scolds.

Bonzo sets him onto one of the stools and orders a drink for himself. Robert sways a bit, feeling deliciously light-headed. "You can't handle your liquor, mate," Bonzo says, gulping down his pint.

"'Snot my fault I don't bleed bourbon like  _some people_ ," Robert snipes through a pout.

"What's the matter?"

Robert fills Bonzo in on his woes, sipping at a drink of his own throughout the story. Someone takes the stage and croons "Sunshine of Your Love." Robert fights the urge to join in.

"I s'pose I can't blame you," Bonzo says when Robert's finished. "Parents aren't the nicest lot sometimes."

"Jimmy seems to think so." Robert sets his glass down a little too hard. Amber liquid sloshes over his knuckles. "He speaks of them with near-religious reverence." Yeah, Robert's a little jealous.

"Told you he was mad," Bonzo jokes.

Robert rolls his eyes. "Why do you feel the need to belittle him so much?"

"I'm just havin' a laugh," Bonzo says. "You get so red when I take the piss outta you. Like a little strawberry."

Robert tightens his fingers on the glass and wills his stupid face not to blush and prove Bonzo's point. He is  _so_  not a strawberry. If he's any fruit, he's probably more of a lemon; he understands lemons on a deep, spiritual level.

Bonzo finishes his pint. "I'm taking you home. You don't have the stomach to drink like a fish."

"I could," Robert argues, but he stumbles a bit trying to climb off the barstool.

Bonzo deserves a Best Flatmate medal for hauling Robert back to their apartment and sorting him out with a warm meal and a soft bed. Robert murmurs his appreciation into the pillow before boozy exhaustion sweeps him away.

* * *

 

Robert's parents don't show on Saturday night. Which, of course, Robert expected. Though he's a little gutted that he can't see Jimmy in the crowd. Then again, it's dark, and the stage lights make it difficult to decipher any faces past the third row, but Robert thinks he'd be able to feel Jimmy's presence if he were here.

He's aware of how ridiculous that sounds, but it's not borne of some deep, profound connection; Robert just feels on edge around Jimmy, uneasy in a way he can't articulate. And, of course, most of that's got to do with his life-ruining crush on the guy. But Robert feels like there's something else there, something beckoning to him that his spirit answers. A subconscious bond, perhaps.

Robert's not too crazy about most of the band's material, but every now and then he gets to cover a tune he can really inject himself into, like "White Rabbit," "For What It's Worth," or an Elvis song. He knows intuitively how to command attention, and, if he's honest, it's fucking awesome being up there under the lights with all eyes on him.

The adrenaline of performing almost makes him forget that the one person he wishes were here isn't.

After the show, the band exits out the back door and loads equipment into their van. They head down the street to a local pub, where Bonzo and Robert promise to meet them later. Bonzo's out back, sucking on a joint while Robert loiters nearby. Bonzo glances at him and says, "Don't look so glum. I saw a girly-lookin' bloke eyeing you the whole time."

Robert can't even muster up the energy to be offended by that turn of phrase.

"He never took his eyes off you, even when a couple'a pretty things came his way. The way he was watching..." Bonzo trails off. "I'm amazed he didn't approach you after the show."

Robert thinks about asking if the guy was cute but remembers talking about this particular subject with Bonzo is like discussing Mozart with a deaf man. All this talk of a stranger watching him from the shadows only reinforces Jimmy's absence.

Robert puffs a sigh into the night air. "I wish Jimmy had been here to see me. I invited him last week, but he didn't show."

Bonzo opens his mouth to say something but closes it. Robert's about to ask him to say it anyway when he interjects, "Why are you so hung up on this bloke? You don't even know his last name."

Robert rolls his eyes, because he knows plenty of things about Jimmy, all of which are much more important than last names. "So what? I know he's twenty-five years old, an avid reader and music enthusiast. He used to play guitar, he has a deep respect for his parents, lives in Pangbourne, and detests sugar in his tea."

Robert never knew it was possible to clap sarcastically, but Bonzo manages to do it. "Amazing. You ever wonder why he reveals so little about who he is?"

"He can be straight-forward when he needs to be. It doesn't bother me. I like a bit of mystery."

Bonzo takes a drag off the blunt in a way that strikes Robert as confrontational.

Robert frowns. "Do you really have to smoke that out here?"

Bonzo doesn't dignify that with a response. Robert folds his arms over his chest and leans against the building.

"Obs-Tweedle? Is that another  _Lord of the Rings_  reference?"

Robert turns, startled and ecstastic at the sound of the familiar voice, and finds Jimmy standing there along the side of the building. He's wearing a black leather jacket and dark jeans, a green muffler tied loosely around his neck to offset the bad-boy look he's got going on.

"Can't you approach someone like a normal person?" It's hard to form a coherent sentence around someone as mind-blowingly attractive as Jimmy; Robert's proud of himself.

"I appreciate spontaneity," Jimmy says. The facetious tone drops away when he says, "You were fantastic." He blinks his gorgeous eyes, and Robert nearly implodes out of pride.

"You—you were listening?"

"Of course."

"I didn't see you out there."

"I watched from the back. I thought you'd be nervous if you saw me."

Fuck, is he that transparent? But it's not like Jimmy's wrong about that; Robert's more nervous standing here having a one-on-one conversation with Jimmy than he's ever been onstage.

Bonzo says, "Oh. So  _you're_  Jimmy?"

There's no way.

Was Jimmy the "girly-looking bloke" Bonzo spoke of earlier?

Knowing Robert's life, yeah. Absolutely.

Bonzo steps out from behind Robert and offers Jimmy his free hand. Jimmy accepts it, albeit awkwardly. "My mates call me Bonzo, but you can call me John. I'm a mate of Robert's."

Jimmy smiles like he's a celebrity who's just been recognized someplace he'd rather not be. "You've heard of me?"

"'Course I have. Robert never shuts up about you."

Robert's so absorbed in plotting his own ritual suicide that he doesn't notice Jimmy moving closer until he teases, "Have you been talking about me, Robert?"

"N—No."

"You're a bloody liar," Bonzo says, because he's a sharer.

Robert shoots him the meanest glare he can muster while his face is currently the color of a tomato. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees an impish grin on Jimmy's mouth.

Bonzo focuses his attention on Jimmy. "Why don't we take a moment to get to know each other?"

"Uh, maybe we ought to let Jimmy go for the night. He's got a long commute ahead of him," Robert protests.

"It's all right. I don't mind," Jimmy says, ever the gentleman. He looks at Bonzo. "What would you like to know?"

"For one, Robert tells me he doesn't even know your surname."

Robert glares and slams his fist into Bonzo's arm.

"What? It's a valid question."

"Page," Jimmy answers.

Bonzo lifts an eyebrow. "What do you do for a living?" The question sounds rude, prying, too accusatory.

Robert buries his face in his hands. "Oh, fuck me," he mumbles.

Jimmy fusses with a turquoise bracelet clasped around his wrist. "I write novels."

This comes as a shock to Robert. Why didn't Jimmy share this with him during their bookstore date? It's not like he didn't have the opportunity. He could have suggested one of his own books; Robert doesn't even know what Jimmy writes, but he's certain he'd love it. What could be a better tool for getting to know someone than to read their innermost thoughts?

Bonzo asks, "Oh yeah? Anything I've ever heard of?"

"I prefer not to disclose," Jimmy answers, his eyes enigmatic. Something about his tone makes the hair rise on the back of Robert's neck.

"You're one of those private types, huh? You got somethin' to hide?"

"Don't we all?" Jimmy says, flippant.

"Bonzo, stop," Robert groans. This is the type of scrutiny reserved only for dates you bring home to your parents. Bonzo has no right being so goddamn nosy. "Inquisitions like this are probably  _why_  he's a private person."

Jimmy shoots him a short, grateful smile. He tucks a lock of his hair behind his ear. "To be fair, Robert's kept secrets of his own. For one, he never told me what a fantastic vocalist he is."

Robert's face turns a humiliating shade of red. "I'm not a fan of preening." That's a lie in every way.

"How long have you been singing?" Jimmy asks, a smile in his voice.

Robert shrugs. "A few years, I suppose."

The smile falls away, and Jimmy looks puzzled. "I don't understand," he says, his brow furrowed. "How have you not become a big name yet?"

Robert gapes at him. Did he actually manage to impress Jimmy tonight? "I—I don't know. I suppose I just haven't been discovered by the right person."

Jimmy smiles, looks off at nothing in particular. There's something melancholic about his face that Robert can't put a finger on. "My instincts say there must be something wrong with you, but I know that's not it at all."

"Have you ever  _spoken_  to Robert?" Bonzo cuts in. "There's plenty wrong with him."

Robert socks him in the shoulder again.

"You punch like my grandmother," Bonzo says.

"You're rubbing your arm, so I'm going to take that as a compliment." Robert tosses his hair back in a totally manly way.

Jimmy gives him a quick look, his eyes bright and blazing. "I should get going. Quite a commute ahead. It was nice to meet you, John." Robert's stomach twists when Jimmy casts his gaze back to him. "I'll ring you?"

Robert nods, his tongue devoid of words. Jimmy's walking away when Robert calls, "Wait!"

Jimmy pauses and turns to look at him. "Yes?"

"You're an author?" Robert still can't get over that.

Jimmy nods.

"Isn't that a little on-the-nose, what with your last name being Page?"

Jimmy laughs, hearty and genuine, and there's no fucking way this is the first time he's ever heard that joke. But the way Jimmy's laughing tells Robert it absolutely is. His eyes crinkle with mirth. "I'll see you around, Robert." It sounds like a promise, and Robert can only watch, captivated, as Jimmy walks away and disappears onto the street.

Bonzo shakes his head, like he cannot believe his life's turning into a bad romance novel. He takes another drag. "So that's why his hair is so big. It's full of secrets."

"Oh, come off it. He indulged your little game." Robert isn't sure how to feel about his flatmate conducting a semi-interview of his potential dates. But he's pleased that Jimmy seems to have passed the test.

"Does he know you're only twenty?"

"He said I don't seem my age."

Bonzo makes a noise that says nothing at all, but Robert thinks it's a sound of disagreement.

"If he fancies me, a few years in either direction shouldn't matter that much, right?"

"Why don't you just ask him?"

"Ask him what?"

"Ask him on a date," Bonzo says, like it's obvious.

Robert sputters out a choked noise of horror. "Are you mad?"

"You say he's a decent guy, right? He probably won't be too offended."

Clearly, Bonzo's sustained some sort of brain damage if he thinks just asking Jimmy out is a good idea. "'M sorry, but that's not exactly a topic we've brought up in conversation!"

"He ought to be used to it; he looks like the type of bloke to get mistaken for a bird." Bonzo chuckles. "And, hey, so are you!"

Robert slugs him in the shoulder. "You're a right bastard."

Bonzo doesn't disagree. "The way he was watching you tonight... I don't think he'd be offended. He might be waiting for you to make the first move. He seems kind of shy."

Robert thinks that over. Could Jimmy really be interested in him in a non-platonic way? Robert can't fathom the idea of someone as attractive as Jimmy wanting to see him naked, but, hey, different strokes and all.

Bonzo finishes his joint and drops it onto the concrete, stubbing it out with his shoe. "I've been keeping a secret, you know," he starts in a quiet voice. "I wanted to find the right time to tell you, but I guess there isn't one."

Robert swallows thickly. " _Oh_. Oh no. I'm—I'm sorry, I'm flattered, but I don't—I don't like you that way." Is that tactful? Robert's never had to deal with this before.

Bonzo laughs at him, which Robert thinks is an inappropriate response. "I don't fancy you, you idiot. Pat's pregnant, and I'm gonna ask her to marry me."

That is so not what Robert was expecting. "That's wonderful! Congratulations—assuming it's yours, of course."

Bonzo punches much harder than Robert does. "Ow! That ought to bruise," Robert grumbles, rubbing his sore arm. "Why didn't you want to tell me? This is fantastic."

"Not for you."

Robert tilts his head. "What do you mean?"

"Well, I can't exactly start a family in a cramped flat with you around. No offense."

With a wave of nausea, Robert realizes the meaning there. If Bonzo moves out, Robert will have to pay for the flat himself—highly unlikely considering his unreliable source of income. Even if he downgrades to a smaller place, money will still be a front-and-center problem here. But it's not enough to damper his enthusiasm for Bonzo's impending marriage.

"Oh, well, I'll sort that out later. I mean, she could say no."

Robert barely dodges that time, laughing as he rushes onto the sidewalk with Bonzo hot on his heels.


	4. Chapter 4

Robert doesn't sleep well that night, his mind plagued with anxiety about his impending state of homelessness. He drags himself out of bed around daybreak and finds Bonzo's already left. He fixes himself tea to go with breakfast and opens the newspaper folded on the table. It's yesterday's news, which is well and good, because he hadn't read it yesterday. The front page story is another mysterious murder, this time in Hampshire. Another wealthy victim brutally gored in his own home. Nothing stolen, of course, as if the killer's just murdering affluent people for the sake of it.

Robert doesn't think so. There has to be a motive, even if it's unclear. He doubts there's a transient madman running around, because the loony sort tend to leave evidence. Or messages scrawled in blood or other bodily fluids. And the victims wouldn't allow someone like that into their homes. You'd be daft not to have some form of home protection with that kind of wealth, so breaking in would prove difficult for the average criminal.

Robert folds the paper and puts it aside. He's too groggy for this kind of problem-solving. That's when he notices the neatly-wrapped square package on the table underneath a stack of envelopes. Bonzo must have fetched the mail this morning from days prior. Robert drags the package closer, eager to know the recipient. He's not at all expecting to see his name there.

The handwriting strikes him as familiar, but he can't place it. The return address comes from someplace in Pangbourne, and, holy shit, did Jimmy send him something? The shape and size of the package feels like a book. Maybe Jimmy mailed him one of his novels!

Robert tears the paper open in excitement, so he's a little disappointed to see  _Evermore_  staring back at him, like a cosmic joke on his hopes and dreams. What if Jimmy hated the book and sent it back as a through-the-post "fuck you"? Jimmy doesn't seem the type to be passive-aggressive, but Robert hadn't known Jimmy's last name or occupation until last night, so odds are there's plenty more he doesn't know yet.

There's a note sticking out between the cover and the first page. Robert's almost terrified to see what it says, but he's reaching out and plucking it from the book before he can analyze whether or not he wants to read it.

_Thought you might enjoy this, being such a big fan and all. Cheers._

_Your pal, Jimmy_

Robert's mouth drops open. Jimmy totally  _is_  the passive-aggressive type. What a dick. It's almost kind of hilarious, but all Robert can focus on is how much he'd gushed about the books, only for Jimmy to share absolutely none of his enthusiasm.

Why is Robert allowed to like things? Clearly it causes him nothing but grief.

He pushes the cover aside to stick the note back in, and that's when he sees the elaborate autograph on the title page: Nelson Storm.

Holy. Fucking. Shit.

Jimmy knows the author of the  _Evermore_  series? That would make sense, being an author himself. Does Jimmy write in the same genre? If so, why wouldn't he recommend his own books once he knew Robert's a fan of fantasy? It takes him a moment to realize the obvious answer: Jimmy could be embarrassed that Robert might think his writing sucks. After seeing Robert gush over Nelson Storm's work—seriously, the dude's a genius—Jimmy might feel like his own prose pales in comparison.

It's hard for Robert to imagine Jimmy being embarrassed about anything, but it's more difficult to think of a better reason why Jimmy's hiding his work away. Robert hops up from his chair and makes a dash for the phone. The anxious part of his brain wonders if his call will be welcome, but he's getting better at tuning it out.

Jimmy sounds sort of groggy when he answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh no, I didn't wake you, did I?"

He chuckles a light, airy sound. "No, you're alright. How are you?"

"I'm, um—I'm still figuring out how to deal with what you sent me in the post."

Robert hears the smile in Jimmy's voice. "You got it? Oh, good, I worried it had gotten lost."

"'M sorry, we don't really check our mail that often."

"At any rate, I'm glad you like it."

"How did you even get his autograph? He's, like, a recluse!"

Jimmy laughs. "A magician never reveals his secrets." The king of non-answers strikes again.

"Can you at least tell me what he's like in person? I imagine he's very eloquent and soft-spoken, yes?"

"If you were to meet him, I don't think you would be disappointed," Jimmy says after a moment.

"You realize that only makes me want to meet him more, don't you?"

"Absolutely." Robert can just  _hear_  the smugness in his voice. Bastard.

"How did you find my address?"

"Your mate Maureen was more than happy to share it with me," Jimmy says.

So  _that's_  why Jimmy ducked back into the bookstore. He wasn't asking for Maureen's number at all. Holy shit.

"I think the more important question is: how did you get her to keep quiet that you asked?" Robert asks.

"I have my methods of persuasion." So, beautiful-person voodoo?

Robert should take this time to ask Jimmy out. Jimmy's already sent him an autographed copy of his favorite book, asked for his home address, and took the time to attend one of his shows; obviously there's some interest here, platonic or otherwise. Jimmy probably won't say no to hanging out again.

Robert's breath hitches in his throat when he asks, "You wouldn't happen to be busy tomorrow, would you?"

"That depends who's asking," Jimmy says in a voice Robert might describe as flirtatious.

"Me. I'm asking."

"Hmm, I suppose I could fit you in." Was that an innuendo? It sounded like one—Jimmy's voice had a curl of a smile to it—so Robert's totally going with that. He can't stop grinning and blushing like mad, because the mental image of Jimmy  _fitting him in_  is enough to make his brain explode.

"Wonderful, then, if it's not too much trouble, would you like to meet someplace? Oh, I know! This time, I could come to Pangbourne!"

"You must, it's quite a sight. When the sun sets over the river... Well, you can't fully appreciate it unless you've seen it."

"Then it's settled! I'll come to you," Robert says, accepting no argument. He's eager to see where Jimmy lives, because it sounds scenic as fuck, and Robert is totally into that. Lying in the grass and staring up at the cottony clouds would be just as fun as catching a movie. Shit like this is probably why Robert's still single.

Jimmy sounds pleased to hear it, though. "That's good. You'll enjoy it."

Robert wants to say something cheesy like, "I'll enjoy anything as long as I'm with you," but he stops himself, because he still isn't sure that won't scare Jimmy off. It's not like he has any proof Jimmy's into him, just vague suspicions that are pure speculation. He imagines this is how conspiracy theorists think, just wanting to believe something so badly that they twist innocuous details into something more, forcing a square peg into a round hole and assuring themselves the pieces always fit together perfectly.

But Robert's not going to delude himself. He's going to make damn sure Jimmy's interested in non-platonic activity between them. Maybe he'll drop a conversational seed somewhere and see if Jimmy nurtures it or throws it the fuck out to sea. Jimmy's a beautiful dude; it's not too outrageous to think he might have been propositioned by another man before. So his reaction to such a thing might be subdued due to the frequency of it, or insanely fucking vicious because he's sick of being hit on by blokes.

It could go either way, really. But Robert might get a bit of slack because they're friends. Sort of. Awkward acquaintances, maybe.

Robert spends the rest of the day job-hunting, to no avail. Most places aren't hiring, and the ones that are turn their collective noses up at his lackluster work experience. Which Robert can't really blame them for—he'd probably turn himself away if he owned a business—but, damn. Shitty club gigs won't pay the bills, that's for sure. He wonders if Bonzo has any pull in his construction job, maybe enough to get Robert hired on for something. He could bring the workers fresh water or wipe the sweat from their brows.

Robert's really not as gay as that sentence makes him sound.

As he's climbing into bed that night, he finds the first volume of  _Evermore_  sitting on the mattress. It's been a while since he read it, and there's no time like the present. Robert flips the book open to the beginning.

It starts:

_The fire consumed all that was left of their home, flickering fingers of flame spiralling toward the sky. Sorwen and Fiona had made this place their sanctuary, and a cruel spirit made it their hell. With nothing but a steed and a leather-bound encyclopedia of spectres and ghouls, they set off into the night, in search of the creature that wrought destruction upon their family._

Robert makes it about a hundred pages in before sleep settles over him. He only realizes he's fallen asleep because he jerks awake from a vivid, violent dream around four in the morning, his heart pounding in his chest and sweat beading on his brow.

The disturbing images stick in his head. Robert sits in the darkness in the middle of his bed with his knees drawn up to his chest. He shivers, though he isn't cold. The morbid turn of the news lately must be getting to him. He dreamt of mutilated, gory bodies, heard the harrowing screams of the dying. He saw it all, save for the face of the killer. In fact, the killer wasn't there at all. The victims were torn apart by invisible blades or claws, thrashing underneath something unseen. But amongst the piercing shriek of death, he heard animalistic howling. Like a wolf or a coyote.

Robert reaches for the dog-eared book, desperate to fill his head with more pleasant images. Maybe he shouldn't have fallen asleep during the scene where demons try to storm the castle:

_Fiona took the pot of ink and scrawled a crude symbol onto the castle floor. The sigil spanned three feet across, drawn out of messy black smears. Mordechai watched her with indignation and confusion. "What are you doing?"_

" _Creating a devil's trap," she answered, impervious to his harsh tone. "The salt lining the entryways should keep them out, but if they manage to infiltrate the castle, this will render them immobile."_

 _From outside_ ,  _the castle doors rattled_   _from the pounding of impatient spirits, pounding so loud it shook the very foundation. "How do you know they are demons?" Mordechai asked._

" _You see them out there, don't you?" Sorwen answered, holding the torch to illuminate the castle as well as allow him to see the pages of the journal in his free hand. "They have taken vessels as their own, their vile spirits corrupting the bodies of the innocent."_

" _Their eyes shine black as coal," Fiona added. "All hell, no humanity. They will tear you apart if given the chance. Find some iron!" she called to Mordechai. "Iron repels evil spirits, but it must be pure!"_

_Mordechai scurried through the dimly-lit interior in search of a suitable weapon. Sorwen held the torch over Fiona to allow her to finish the sigil. "No chance of finding holy water, is there?"_

_Fiona made a graceless sound of amusement. "Unlikely."_

Robert's just barely dozing off when the pieces click together in his head. He doesn't have the entire picture yet, not enough to be certain, but it's enough that things start making sense. It's enough to keep him awake the rest of the night, watching the shadows along the walls.

* * *

 

Robert doesn't waste too much time fussing over his outfit the next day, just throws on a t-shirt and jeans and heads out. Bonzo's at work already, so there's no interrogation as Robert leaves for the tube. He spends most of the train ride dozing off and waking up intermittently, though he doesn't feel any more rested for it.

Jimmy's waiting for him at the bus stop in Pangbourne, all smiles and excitement. It lifts Robert's spirits to see Jimmy so happy and to know he's the cause of it. "Looks like you donned the flower motif this time," Robert jokes.

Jimmy glances down at his shirt and chuckles sheepishly. "S'pose I did." He's also wearing a pair of white trousers, which may or may not be the tightest pants Robert's ever seen in his life. How does Jimmy get into those? Does he paint them on? Robert's tempted to touch them and find out, but he stuffs his hands into his pockets and valiantly ignores the way he can almost see the outline of dick. Yeah, Jimmy's packin'. And he's not even hard.

Holy shit, what if he  _is_? Robert's brain abandons him there at the train stop, because if Jimmy's got a boner from seeing Robert he doesn't even know what to do with himself.

"It looks good," Robert says, and as soon as the words are out of his mouth he wants to claw them back. Christ, he's a fucking idiot who can't keep his dumb mouth shut for five seconds.

Jimmy smiles in return, and his eyes do that crinkly thing Robert can't get enough of. "Would you care for a bite?"

_Of you? Absolutely._

"Of lunch, I mean," Jimmy says, as if he heard Robert's inner skank. "I know a place not far from here. If you want, of course."

"Yeah, I could eat."

"You look like a man who could use a drink as well," Jimmy teases.

Robert realizes his lack of sleep must be etched on his face. "Oh. 'M sorry, I didn't sleep well last night."

"You, too?" The corner of Jimmy's mouth twitches up, like he's silently enjoying a joke only he's privy to.

Robert wonders what could have distressed Jimmy enough to keep him awake. "I won't fall asleep on you, though. You're riveting company."

Jimmy might actually blush a bit.

He shows Robert a shortcut to the restaurant through a meticulously-kept neighborhood. This must be a route only savvy locals know; there's no fences or brick walls barricading the community—instead, a wall of trees and shrubbery discourages any trespassing. But Jimmy shows him the way inside, weaving through towering tree trunks and bushes with ease. Robert's a little clumsier, but he manages all the same.

The short walk through the neighborhood takes them past a row of stately, extravagant houses. Robert's too busy taking in the sights, so he doesn't notice that Jimmy's come to a stop until he bumps into his back. "What's the matter?" Robert looks around Jimmy's frozen form and sees the problem. In the distance, there's a stretch of yellow blockade tape around one of the manors. A swarm of police cars are parked around it, and there's a cluster of onlookers gathered behind the tape.

Another crime scene?

"Do you want to go back?" Robert asks, because if Jimmy's squeamish he doesn't want to force him to pass by a house where someone was murdered. Of course, it could be something mundane and non-violent, but do they really want to take chances?

Jimmy shakes his head and moves forward. "It's fine. It's faster this way."

As they move closer, Robert decides to take a look, since everyone else seems to be doing so. Uniformed officers pick up pieces of Lord-knows-what and place them in evidence bags. A crime scene crew wheels a gurney out the front door. There's a dark plastic bag on the gurney, and it takes Robert a moment to realize there's a body in there.

His stomach plummets. "Oh no." The dream rockets back into his thoughts and makes him nauseous.

Jimmy stops again to survey the scene, his skin almost ashen pale. His thick brows knit together in a way that's beyond empathy, as if he's experienced this firsthand.

Oh Christ, what if Jimmy's parents died this way?

Robert watches the body as it's loaded into the back of an emergency vehicle. He feels light-headed despite seeing nothing too gruesome.

"Pagey?" Robert murmurs, tugging at one of Jimmy's long sleeves. "C'mon. Let's go."

Jimmy turns his head and startles a bit at the sight of Robert, as if suddenly noticing he's there. He wets his mouth and just  _stares_  for a moment before catching Robert's hand and leading him to the other end of trees.

The world seems a bit unreal, because they're walking past a crime scene, and Jimmy's holding Robert's hand in a way that's kind of intimate and tender but also pretty fierce. Robert wants to ask if Jimmy's okay, but he really wants the hand-holding to continue, and if he opens his mouth there's a good chance he'll fuck it up.

Jimmy doesn't let go until they reach the restaurant and he holds the door open for Robert. The menu's made up of items Robert can barely pronounce; he might be able to afford the appetizers alone if he became a prostitute. It's not so ritzy there's a dress code, but most of the stuff's still out of Robert's price range, especially now that he's basically unemployed.

But, God, Robert can't let Jimmy know how fucking basic he is. Jimmy's probably got a nice, extravagant house, and he can dine at pricey restaurants and wear expensive-looking clothes. Robert, on the other hand, lives in a crappy flat with a roommate, has a wardrobe consisting mostly of second-hand clothes, and is what could charitably be considered poor. It's a miracle they're even friends.

Robert orders a glass of water and busies himself with the complementary bread basket on the table between them. Jimmy watches him with curiousity, like he's never seen a person buttering bread before. "What are you doing?" Jimmy asks, a quirk of a smile at the corner of his lips.

Robert's got a mouthful of bread right now, so he just points to the loaf with a butter-laden knife.

"You're not going to order anything?" Jimmy seems concerned for Robert's well-being, which is kind of adorable. "Not even a pint? Maybe a glass of wine?"

Robert doesn't even want to think about the alcohol prices or he might lose his appetite entirely. "I'm fine."

Jimmy smiles like he gets it now. "I'll foot the bill. Don't worry about that."

Robert's mouth opens in stunned silence. "You—you don't have to..."

"I don't mind. I've certainly got the money," he says with a humorless chuckle.

"That's very generous of you," Robert says. This has all the makings of a date: Jimmy holding his hand, paying the check, encouraging him to get drunk. All that's missing is awkward footsie under the table. Jimmy traces a fingertip around the rim of his own glass, then he finds the stem and fingers it so intently Robert has to wonder if it's a flirtation.

Robert looks away, toys with the cloth napkin in his lap. "I sort of... lost my job last week," he admits, chagrined, "and I haven't had much luck in finding a new one. You're the last person I want to be a burden to."

"What about your roommate?"

"He's moving out sometime soon," Robert says with a shrug.

Jimmy looks suddenly sad for reasons Robert can't place. "'M sorry to hear that."

Robert reaches for another slice of bread, but Jimmy lays his knife over Robert's hand to stop him. "Would you please order a proper meal?" Jimmy says, with all the patience of a weary parent.

Robert does as he's told and orders the cheapest thing on the menu. He's not even sure what it is, really. Jimmy opts for a bottle of wine, because if they're both a little tipsy maybe things could happen, things that are sexy and involve Jimmy putting his hands and/or mouth on various parts of Robert's anatomy. The sweet liquid distracts him from the rules in his head, and soon they're talking back and forth like they've been friends for ages.

"How come you never told me you write novels?" Robert asks, the wine blotting out his fear of the answer or Jimmy's reaction.

Jimmy shrugs his shoulders in a practiced way. "I didn't think it was important."

"I brought you to a bookstore," Robert reminds him.

"And how rude would I be to force my writing on you? 'Since we're here, you might as well read what I've written'?"

Robert shakes his head. "I wouldn't see it that way. I'd love to read your books."

Another secret smile. "Maybe someday."

Goddamn, he's cryptic. It's almost like he's doing it on purpose.

Robert ignores Jimmy's frustrating mysteriousness for now, because he's been mulling this theory in his head all day and wants an outside opinion. "I've been thinking about something, and it's a bit out there, but you might appreciate it."

"Oh?" Jimmy's eyebrows shoot up, but the rest of his face stays placid. How the hell does he do that?

Robert clears his throat, pokes at the food on his plate with a fork. He doesn't know how to approach the topic after encountering it first-hand earlier, but Robert decides the only way to get any answers is to just dive in headfirst and worry about the damage later. "Well, I was—I was thinking about those murders going on, y'know, and how"—he searches for the word—"strange they are. They're all rich, well-to-do people, but nothing's been taken. Don't you find that odd?"

Jimmy does that careful shrugging thing again. "In a way, yes."

"And the killer doesn't leave any weapons or footprints or anything, which, I don't even know how that's possible. You think there'd be something left on accident or on purpose. And if it's some sort of animal, how come the bodies are always brought out from inside? Did all the victims have pets that just went mad?"

Jimmy pushes his hair back, sips at his wine.

"Maybe it sounds a little crazy, but what if there's something bigger going on here?" Robert suggests. He's in full hand-gesturing mode now. God help him. "You've read  _Evermore_ , right? What if the stories and magic in the books have more truth to them than we think? I mean, the stuff's all based off real legends that got passed down through generations. Every culture has its own form of the same ideas—ghosts, vengeful spirits, demons. They might call them something different or have a few altered details, but the basic idea is the same, isn't it? That there's things out there we don't know about yet."

Jimmy twirls the stem of his glass between his fingers. He isn't looking at Robert, which Robert doesn't mind; he tends to lose his train of thought when Jimmy's looking directly at him with those intense eyes.

There's a decent chance Jimmy thinks Robert's gone mad.

Robert continues rambling, because every now and then he strikes gold. "I mean, if it's made up, how can all these different civilizations from across the globe tell the same stories? They didn't have newspapers or radio or television or any way of communicating these things to people in other towns or countries."

Jimmy gives him a half-assed smirk. "Oh, Robert, don't tell me you believe in ghosts."

"Don't tell me you  _don't_."

"Every culture has folklore about ghosts and monsters because they needed a way to explain things," Jimmy says. "Before anyone knew what disease or deformities were, they'd explain it as a curse or the work of something evil. Religious zealots used it as a way to control the masses. The devil was created because to every yin there must be a yang. Balance. Good and evil. One cannot exist without the other."

Robert's not turned on by how smart Jimmy is, he's  _not_. "So everyone all over the world just happened to come up with the same explanations?"

"What do you think happens when one country invades another? They take what they can use and paint the natives as uncivilized, wicked savages. Why else would allegedly good people raze forests and slaughter innocent humans? 'They must have been evil.' Turn their folklore into something dark and twisted, their gods into demons, their enchanted places into haunted locales. Humanity has such an ugly way of discrimination: race, sex, creed, even something as mundane as the length of one's hair... Whatever strays from the norm becomes maligned. And that's the history that gets passed down."

Robert tries to recalculate his theory to include this new information. "Then how can there be legends of people spotting, say, the Loch Ness monster, over centuries? Or recurring stories of different people seeing a ghost in the same abandoned manor or graveyard?"

Jimmy takes a sip of wine, his fingers tight around the glass. "Wishful thinking. 'One begins to twist facts to suit theories, instead of theories to suit facts.'"

Robert blinks. He's pretty sure that's a quote from something, but he's not sure what.

"Sherlock Holmes."

"Oh." Holy shit, can Jimmy read minds? Robert tests this hypothesis by picturing them having the nastiest, kinkiest sex imaginable. Jimmy doesn't react, so there goes that theory. He's secretly grateful, because, man, some of the shit he's imagined them doing is probably illegal or, at the very least, frowned upon in polite society.

"Then you at least believe in Tulpas, right?" Robert says.

Jimmy snorts a derisive noise.

"They're Tibetian thought forms. In 1915 Tibet, a group of twenty monks visualized a golem in their minds, meditating on it so much that they brought it to life." The only reason Robert knows this is because in  _Black Mountain Side_  Sorwen and Fiona dealt with the possibility of a Tulpa in Cadair Idris. He's pretty much just regurgitating the explanation in the novel, which isn't helping him look like a sane and normal human being.

Jimmy swirls the wine in his glass. "You think simply believing in something can make it real?"

"Why not? How many 'imaginary' things have changed our lives? One could argue that most religious figures aren't real, but look at the impact they've had on the world. Long after we're gone, people will still believe in Jesus and Santa Claus and the Easter Hare and the Tooth Fairy. In a way, doesn't that make them more real than either of us?"

"I feel like this is a conversation I can't fully appreciate without the aid of mind-altering substances," Jimmy chuckles.

Robert huffs annoyance. "So you don't believe in ghosts or demons or anything supernatural at all?" Someone as mysterious as Jimmy seems like he'd be gung-ho about that shit.

Jimmy fixes his gaze on Robert. "Joseph Conrad said, 'The belief in a supernatural source of evil is not necessary. Men alone are quite capable of every wickedness.'"

"Why don't you ask Nelson Storm? I mean, you know him, right? Enough to get an autograph, at least. He writes about that stuff for a living. Maybe he knows something we don't."

Jimmy shakes his head a little harshly. "No, he doesn't, Robert."

"How can you be sure? The man's a genius. I'd give anything to write like him!"

Jimmy says, with absolute conviction, "I'm certain because I  _am_  him."

Robert doesn't know why laughter is his first response to that, but giggles flow past his lips, and he's making unattractive horse noises in front of the guy he has a crush on. "Be serious, Pagey!"

"Do I look to be joking?" Jimmy asks, and, no, he really doesn't. He's got that serious face going that makes him look like a budding serial killer/solemn supermodel. "I'm telling you, it's all bollocks. Fiction. Made up."

Robert's laughter wanes, because, whoa, Jimmy's absolutely serious. He tries to think of how this could possibly make any sense, and he lays out what he knows in his head:

Jimmy is a novelist.

He's secretive about pretty much everything, from what he had for breakfast to his last name.

He knows Nelson Storm well enough to get an autograph.

He's rich, or at least has a respectable amount of money.

He doesn't believe in magic or monsters.

Robert's having a bit of trouble with that last one, because it doesn't make sense to make a living writing about something you don't believe in at least a little. But if Jimmy claimed every word was true, Robert would probably think he was batshit crazy.

"Why did you wait until now to tell me? You should've played that card the minute you learned I love your books!"

Jimmy's expression tightens almost imperceptibly. "Then how would I know if you truly appreciated me for who I am?"

That's... that's a pretty decent point.

"I had to ensure you wanted my friendship for the right reasons."

Robert's still a little—okay, a lot—skeptical. "If you're really him, what's something only he would know?"

"The plot of the fourth book, perhaps?"

Robert's eyes pop open. "No," he gasps.

"I have a copy of the manuscript at home, if you'd care to read the first few pages." Jimmy takes another sip of wine.

This sounds like a nerdy version of luring kids into your van with candy. And Robert is so fucking down with it. "What's the title?"

" _Swan Song_."

"Oh, no, it's all over?" Robert doesn't know what to do with his life now.

"Nothing ever really ends, does it?" Jimmy says. "The plot centers around Sorwen and Fiona discovering who or what burned their home and family. Remember, at the end of  _Houses of the Holy_  they met Xehtael, the angel bloke? He says Sorwen and Fiona have been chosen to fight alongside the angels in the upcoming war against Satan's forces."

Robert doesn't realize he's leaning in so intently until he can smell the wine in the glass under his nose.

"Restless spirits of people Sorwen and Fiona failed to save are returning, of course, to kill them. And a powerful demon is creating a cult to lead Satan's army by infusing them with demon blood. This demon, of course, is responsible for the deaths of Sorwen and Fiona's family."

"Oh my God, you're a genius," Robert says, his voice barely a whisper.

Jimmy laughs. "Do you want to know how it ends?"

"No, no, don't spoil it for me, please."

"I see you're no longer a skeptic."

"We're already friends, aren't we? Why would you need to lie to gain my trust?" Because Robert would do anything Jimmy asked already, even without the knowledge that he's Robert's favorite author, and, Christ, he's having a tough time wrapping his head around that one.

Robert wants to beat his head against the table right now, because he'd prattled on about those books like a complete tit, and Jimmy didn't even  _stop him_. Robert makes a helpless noise and buries his face in his hands. "Oh God... I can't believe it."

"I'm sorry, I shouldn't have—"

"You let me go on and on about your books when all along you'd written them," Robert moans. He's pretty sure he's going to die of embarrassment right here. "You could have stopped me. Why didn't you stop me?" He thinks about reaching across the table and shaking Jimmy, but Jimmy probably already assumes he's a little crazy. Best not show him just how much.

Jimmy laughs a melodious sound. His smile is so dazzling it would knock Robert off his feet if he wasn't sitting down. "I love your enthusiasm. And, yes, it helps that it's about something I made, but I could listen to you talk about your favorite things all day."

Stage six face-reddening has officially been discovered. Robert covers his warm cheeks with his hands. "Even so, you must hear things like that all the time."

"I'm, 'like, a recluse,' remember?" Jimmy says with a pleased, private smirk.

Robert does recall saying that at some point. He feels the urge to flee the table before he says any more embarrassing shit. "I'm sorry I called you a recluse."

"You  _compared_  me to a recluse. There's a difference. And you're not entirely wrong, either way."

"Why do you do that? Hide yourself away, I mean. You don't like the attention?"

"I just want to write my books and get on with my life. I'm not much interested in the fame side of things," Jimmy says.

"That must be incredibly lonely," Robert says. Even though Jimmy's told him he appreciates the solitude, it still sounds depressing as hell.

"You're only lonely if you crave company. I get exhausted from too much interaction."

"Too much interaction" could be the title of Robert's autobiography; he wonders if he wears Jimmy out by being so goddamn peppy all the time. "I suppose you'll want to call it a day after this?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "I'd like to show you something first. If that's okay."

Robert hopes that "something" is Jimmy's penis, so of course he says yes.

After lunch, Jimmy leads him through the village, and Robert gawks at how green everything is: the trees and their branches sagging with canopies of leaves, the thick blanket of grass. The sky is a pinkish-purple at the edges, a slow crawl toward sunset. There aren't many times in his life when Robert's been to a house with a private road. This is blowing his mind right now.

"You don't have a car?" Robert asks while they walk. It's a long road, and they would really benefit from some form of vehicular transportation. Even a bicycle would be an improvement.

"I don't have a license," Jimmy corrects.

"That doesn't mean you can't drive. It just means you're not supposed to."

Jimmy laughs an angel's laugh. "Quite the distinction. I'm sure your parents appreciate that."

"What they don't know won't hurt them," Robert jokes, but there's a tightness in Jimmy's expression that wasn't there before.

"Sometime what we don't know hurts us the most," Jimmy says, not looking at him. Robert backs off of the topic immediately. Whatever's lingering under the surface there is raw and painful, and Robert doesn't want to be a source of pain for Jimmy. He wants to offer optimism and hope and happiness to counteract the darkness in Jimmy's life.

It feels like it takes ages, but they finally reach a clearing with a white boathouse in the distance. Thank God. Civilization. Maybe Robert can knock on the door and ask the owner if they can borrow his car for the rest of the way.

"That's where I live," Jimmy says, pointing at the house.

"Oh." Of course it is.

The house sits on the banks of the river Thames, a grand, majestic thing that stands three stories high—the house, not the river. The river stretches out horizontally, rather, backed up against the rear of the house.

"It's beautiful," Robert gapes, awed.

Jimmy smiles like he wants to say something but thinks better of it. He simply leads Robert along the trail, and Robert takes in the sights and sounds: the calming gurgle of the Thames, the rustle of tall grass in the breeze, the friendly chirps of birds perched atop tree branches.

The entire area is pretty secluded amongst the forest of trees. Robert's first thought is, "he could murder me here and no one would ever know," which he's blaming entirely on Bonzo's bad influence. His second thought revolves around how pretty the place is. It's all very serene, and while it doesn't match the nostalgic tranquility of Cadair Idris, it's pretty close.

"It's like someplace out of a fairy tale," Robert hears himself say.

"Fitting, I suppose, with you resembling a damsel." Jimmy's beautiful eyes and mouth laugh at him, and Robert feels a hot flush creep up his neck.

"What does that make you, then?"

"The charming prince, of course," Jimmy says, leading Robert around the back of the house to show off the view of the river. The water glistens under the sheen of the sun. A balcony juts out from the top floor of the house, but Robert barely notices his surroundings when Jimmy's in front of him.

"You're not as charming as you think you are, Pagey," Robert teases. He's amazed he doesn't choke or stutter around the words, because that's a lie in every way.

"Is that so?" Jimmy turns and fixes him with a curious, challenging look.

There's a brief, panic-inducing moment where neither of them say anything, where Jimmy's just watching him with a focused curiosity. Robert holds his breath, stunned at how gorgeous Jimmy looks standing here in all his smirky glory. He wants very much to kiss him right now.

As if picking the thought from Robert's head, Jimmy gets his hands full of Robert's shirt and brings him forward until there's no distance between them. Jimmy's mouth is softer than Robert expected, an inferno against his own. Then there's the dirty slide of tongue in his mouth. Robert forgets how to breathe, because Jimmy's fucking kissing him.

It's the last thing Robert would have ever expected.

Robert hums a contented sound into Jimmy's mouth, and Jimmy moans in agreement, the sound reverberating through them like a bass pulse. Jimmy kisses like he's drowning without the warm press of mouth against his own. It's the hottest kiss Robert's ever been a part of. Jimmy tastes aroused and needy and so full of want Robert doesn't know what to do with it all, how to kiss him back in a way that communicates he feels the same. He makes soft sounds against Jimmy's lips, and Jimmy digs his hands into Robert's shirt and kisses him until they're both dizzy.

Robert parts his lips and breathes in a shaky breath as Jimmy slowly pulls away. "Wow," Robert gasps, because he's a wordsmith.

Jimmy's wet mouth shines around a smile. "Have I rendered you speechless? You're usually so talkative."

Just because Jimmy can kiss the words out of Robert's mouth doesn't mean he has any right to be so smug. "If I were speechless I would have said nothing. You're an author; you should know the proper meaning of words if you're going to use them."

Jimmy's nose crinkles in a particularly adorable way, then he's kissing Robert again, and Robert thinks this ramble-incessantly-to-make-Jimmy-kiss-him idea is definitely the way to go. He settles his hands on Jimmy's slim hips and squeezes, just enough to force a quiet little "uhh" sound out of his mouth, and, holy God, that's hot. Jimmy nips at his bottom lip, and Robert's got a pretty impressive erection going on. Should he be embarrassed about that? Obviously, Jimmy's into him; he'd probably take it as a compliment.

"It must be tempting to take a swim in the river, what with it being so close," Robert says around Jimmy's mouth, because the Thames is right in his line of sight.

Jimmy laughs, which ends up as more of a snort because their mouths are sort of pressed together. "I'm kissing you, and all you can think of is swimming?"

"Swimming would involve you being naked—sort of—so, yes?" Robert says. Jesus Christ, what is  _wrong_  with him?

Jimmy chuckles, though, so Robert's not too humiliated over the stupid words coming out of his mouth. "Can't say I've ever had that notion, considering I can't swim."

Robert doesn't mean to laugh. Really, he doesn't. "You don't know how to swim?"

"I've never had occasion," Jimmy grumbles. Blushing's a good look on him.

"I could teach you, if you'd like. It's not very difficult. Just use your arms."

Jimmy grins, and Robert wonders if there's anything more beautiful in the entire world. "Why does this sound like a ploy to get me 'sort of' naked?"

Robert gasps, feigning offense. "I would never. I'm a perfect gentleman!" Another lie.

"Lucky for you, I'm not," Jimmy leers before kissing him again.

And just like that, all of Robert's worries blow away like dandelion fluff in the wind, because Jimmy kisses like the world is ending, and Robert is so, so in love; his heart might burst from the force of it. "Lucky me, indeed."


	5. Chapter 5

They watch the sun set over the river before going inside to the boathouse. Jimmy's home is elegant and refined, just as Robert pictured it would be. Most of the furniture consists of floral patterns. The living room boasts a pretty impressive collection of sculptures and antiques.

"Would you care for tea?" Jimmy asks, out of formality rather than necessity.

"No, thank you." Robert looks around, awed by Jimmy's lavish décor. "You have a lovely home." Jimmy gives him a shy smile and pushes a piece of hair behind his ear.

Robert spots a ceiling-high bookcase on the right and gravitates toward it. "What an impressive collection!" he marvels, skimming his fingertips over the spines of the books there. Most of the titles are occult-ish in nature, having to do with demons, ghosts, monsters, and magic. Some of the books appear to be in foreign languages; the only one Robert recognizes is Latin.

Research material, of course, for the  _Evermore_  series.

Robert isn't sure what to make of that. Why would someone devote so much time and energy to something they don't believe in?

Jimmy notices Robert admiring his personal library. He moves closer and curls a hand around Robert's elbow. Robert stiffens for a moment, still not used to the warmth of Jimmy's touch. "Come with me?" Jimmy says, his voice soft with a touch of pleading.

Robert follows him upstairs, his hand sliding over the sleek wooden rail. "A promise is a promise, right?" Jimmy says.

Robert runs through his conversations with Jimmy in search of a promise he might have made and comes up blank. Jimmy opens a door at the end of the hall, and there is no way Robert could ever be prepared for what's inside. The room is filled with guitars, both electric and acoustic, mounted on the walls and displayed in glass cases. There's amps and foot pedals and even violin bows, too.

"Wow," Robert breathes out, following Jimmy inside. "How long have you been collecting these?"

"About thirteen years now. My first guitar was a simple Spanish-style acoustic with steel strings I found when I was twelve. Then I bought a Hoffman Senator with an electric pickup. Then came the Grazioso, then the Country Gentleman, the Les Paul, and, my personal favorite, the '58 Telecaster."

Robert's got no idea what any of those words mean, but he enjoys listening to Jimmy talk about his collection. Could Jimmy really feel the same way listening to Robert ramble on? He can't imagine how; Robert doesn't think himself very interesting or charming, but Jimmy likes him enough to kiss him and invite him into his home.

"There's more, obviously," Jimmy says, "but I'm sure you'd rather hear me play one of them instead of prattling on about each one."

"Only if you want to," Robert says, because he knows better than to ask.

"I do." Jimmy pulls one of the acoustic guitars from its case and sits on the couch in the middle of the room. Robert joins him, tentative, tucking his legs underneath him. Jimmy sets the guitar in his lap and begins to play, and,  _holy fuck_. Robert's brain drops to the floor and flops like a dying fish, because Jimmy's a goddamn musical genius. The opening notes aren't complicated, jumping around from string to string, but it's so beautifully composed Robert finds himself holding his breath.

How does Jimmy even do that with his hands? Robert's got minimal experience playing guitar, but he remembers how it left his wrist and fingers sore and stretched after just half an hour. But Jimmy's fingers move with quick, graceful confidence over the strings, an ease that comes with discipline and intuition.

Robert doesn't know how long he listens, but he doesn't want it to end; every phrase is masterfully crafted and played with gentle, effortless finesse. The song is sad and beautiful with an edge of hope to it that reminds Robert of Jimmy himself. He wonders if this is what sex with Jimmy might be like—a slow, calming start that builds and builds to a frantic crescendo, then drifts back to its gentle origins in a soft, poignant finish.

Robert's mind is  _blown_.

When it's over, Jimmy looks at him with the most adorable expression Robert's ever seen, like he doesn't know he just gave Robert the most amazing eight minutes of his life that didn't involve sexual touching.

"That was beautiful," Robert says when he remembers how to take in air.

Jimmy beams at the praise. It feels like he's staring straight into Robert's soul, into his heart, through the marrow of his bones. "You inspired that one."

Robert can't even imagine a universe where someone as breathtaking as Jimmy could possibly be inspired by someone as plain and boring as him. He opens his mouth, closes it, because there are no words.

"I'm feeling really insignificant right now," he finally says around a breathy, self-deprecating chuckle. He covers his face with a hand and drags his fingers through his hair. "I can't believe I let you hear me sing."

Jimmy watches him, a trace of hurt in his eyes. "Don't be embarrassed. Your voice is phenomenal."

Robert has no idea how Jimmy can say so much in so few words. "So are you." He's still getting the hang of it.

Jimmy does that cute, embarrassed smile thing and pushes his hair out of his face. "I'm glad you enjoyed it."

He starts playing another song, and Robert immediately recognizes the familiar chords. "Crossroad Blues," he whispers. Jimmy smirks at him, his hands sliding across the neck of the guitar with ease. God, he  _remembers_  the music Robert likes, which probably means he remembers all the stupid, embarrassing shit Robert's ever said to him.

Robert's instinct is to sing along, but he doesn't want to tarnish Jimmy's beautiful chorus of notes. So he stays silent and listens as the song ends and transforms into something unfamiliar. The difficulty of its strumming sequence is ridiculous, but Jimmy makes the most complicated chord changes look effortless, as if the instrument is an extension of himself. Robert watches Jimmy's thin fingers dance over the frets and strings and pull beautiful, melancholic sounds from them.

One song fades into another, then another, and another, and by the time Jimmy sets the guitar down an hour has passed, and it doesn't even seem that long.

Robert's a little—okay,  _a lot_ —in love with this guy.

"How did you learn to play so well?" Robert asks before his brain revives and tells him that's a stupid fucking question.

But Jimmy doesn't seem to think so. "Practice," he says with a chuckle. "I was twelve when I started. I mostly taught myself, trying to imitate the solos I heard in American rock and roll. My parents were my first real audience, the best I'll ever have." There's that wistful smile again; Robert's stricken speechless by something he can't name. "I played with some local bands for a while, until the Crusaders picked me up at seventeen. But the touring schedule and conditions started to deteriorate my health. I came down with a severe case of glandular fever, and then..." He looks off, his face rigidly placid, like he's fighting to keep his expression neutral. "Then I did session work for a while to finance the books."

Robert leaves that one alone, because it sounds like a button he knows better than to push.

"I still practice and play every day," Jimmy continues. "But any dreams of going further with it are just that."

Robert can't understand why Jimmy abandoned his dream of playing guitar, but clearly he's fantastic at anything he does. "How are you so amazing at everything? You play guitar like it was made just for you, and your writing... New words ought to be invented to really communicate how talented you are. I would sell my soul for your Midas touch."

Jimmy's eyes go soft and sad, as if Robert's just said the most offensive combination of words imaginable. Robert can't  _not_  watch the way Jimmy's throat moves when he swallows. Jimmy must hear this shit all the time; he's probably used to tuning out all the compliments and verbal vomit about how amazing and talented he is. Christ, Robert is so basic.

"You must be tired of hearing that," Robert says, helplessly. "I'm sorry."

Jimmy stands up and crosses the room. Robert panics that he's said something horrible, but Jimmy stays silent, staring out the window at the night sky, the reflection of the moon against the river.

Jimmy lifts a hand to his mouth and plucks at his lower lip; it's a blip on the rader of his general cool, but it's noticeable enough that it takes Robert aback. He looks like he's thinking about something, deliberating a decision in his head.

After a silent moment of Robert staring and Jimmy thinking, Jimmy turns around and asks, "Would you like to stay for dinner?"

* * *

Robert learns that Jimmy's not too bad a cook, and he doesn't even mind when Robert offers to help. Jimmy guides him through the process, correcting his errors before they become mistakes, and there are no kitchen fires or accidents or over-spiced food.

"Maureen highly exaggerated your lack of cooking prowess," Jimmy says. The dining table sits beside a window, giving them a gorgeous view of the moonlit river.

Robert's face flushes hot. "She was trying to embarrass me. Her family makes traditional Indian dishes, which, obviously I'm not that familiar with."

"Why would she want to embarrass you?"

"Because..." Robert's blushing has reached the critical stage of level seven; he might actually be a tomato. "I've never brought anyone 'round to the shop when it's closed, so she must have known I had a bit of a thing for you."

Jimmy's smile has a faint edge of sadness to it. "Everyone knew, Robert. You're not very subtle."

Robert's heart stops in his chest. After a few moments of shocked silence, he stammers out, "Even you?"

"If it bothered me, we wouldn't be sitting here now."

That's... a pretty decent answer. Robert falls silent and finishes his meal, glancing around the walls at the elaborate décor. The paint is paler in some places, as if there had been something there before. "What's gone missing? It looks like there were paintings on the walls."

Jimmy nods. "I brought my parents some things I thought they'd like. It's getting crowded in here, wouldn't you say?"

"They're alive?" Robert gapes aloud before his brain tells him  _shut up shut up shut up you dumb bastard._

Jimmy doesn't look offended, just... very confused. "Yes, why—?"

"Well, the way you spoke of them, I thought maybe they were..." Robert rubs the back of his neck and looks away. "Oh, God... You'll have to forgive me. I've got a disease."

Jimmy tilts his head, inquisitive.

"Foot-in-mouth disease," Robert elaborates. "I say things and then immediately realize how bloody stupid they are. I'm not sure who allowed me to talk, but I'm certain it was a horrible decision on their part."

Jimmy laughs quietly and gives Robert a warm, soothing smile. "If you didn't talk, I wouldn't be near as fond of you as I am."

"You're incredible," Robert says, shaking his head. "Most people would only agree with that sentence the other way 'round."

"Fuck them," Jimmy says, his expression vivid. "You're perfect."

He's convincing enough that Robert might actually believe it.

Some time after that, they end up on the couch together, mouths latched and hands grabbing where ever they can. Robert tilts his head to suck at the corner of Jimmy's luscious mouth. Jimmy makes a noise that should  _not_  get Robert's dick tenting in his jeans, but pretty much everything Jimmy does makes him hard; he's used to it. He feels Jimmy's fingers curl around the base of his neck, underneath his hair, and Robert kisses the line of his jaw, his throat, the excited throb of his pulse. He sucks at his Adam's apple and dips his tongue into the hollow of Jimmy's throat. Robert can feel the rumble of Jimmy's moan there as it vibrates through his vocal cords.

"God," Jimmy sighs, and Robert can't help but press wet, lavish kisses to his perfect lips. He lays a hand on Jimmy's chest, waits for Jimmy to push him away or grant him permission. He just kisses Robert harder, so Robert's taking that as a green light to pluck open the buttons of Jimmy's shirt. Jimmy's skin is warm under Robert's hands, and he rolls his thumb over a nipple, making Jimmy squirm and gasp a quiet sound of surprise. Robert dips down to take the other one into his mouth, pinch the nub between his front teeth. Jimmy gives a sharp inhale and rakes a hand through Robert's hair. Robert kisses his way down Jimmy's body, and Jimmy lets him do as he pleases, his chest heaving with shaky breaths.

Robert skims a hand along Jimmy's thigh. "This—this is okay, right?"

Jimmy nods and wets his lips, spreads his thighs a little, and, wow, that's hot. Robert slides his hand in there and feels Jimmy hard against his palm. Jimmy nudges his hips into it in a way that's fiercely dirty. Robert wants to do more than just jerk Jimmy off, but he doesn't know if Jimmy's okay with that. The only way he'll learn is by going for it and seeing what happens. So he gets Jimmy's trousers open and peels them down his legs, tugs his underwear over his hips. His dick is fucking  _perfect_ , and even though Robert's never done this before he's excited, eager to give as much as he can.

Robert kneels at Jimmy's feet, and Jimmy sighs his name under his breath, like knows exactly what's coming. Robert pushes Jimmy's legs apart and takes him into his mouth. Jimmy makes a helpless noise, sinking into the couch cushions and nudging his hips to push himself deeper. Robert pulls up and sucks at the tip, because he doesn't want to ruin the moment by gagging or coughing. Jimmy digs his hands into Robert's hair and drops his head back against the headrest of the couch. He's moaning obscene little noises and words cut through with Robert's name, and Robert feels saintly as he flattens his tongue against the underside of Jimmy's cock.

Robert hums around him, and Jimmy makes a shuddery, incoherent noise that crescendos into a whine when Robert slides him in deeper. Jimmy's shaking under Robert's lips, his hands going tight, and Robert knows he's close. He wants it all, wants everything Jimmy can give him. He moves to suck at the swollen head of Jimmy's dick, his tongue teasing and tracing, and Jimmy comes in Robert's mouth with a sigh that sounds more like a sob.

Robert drinks him down and finds he loves the taste of Jimmy, thick and bitter in his mouth. He pulls off, lets Jimmy's softening dick slide from his lips, and looks up at him in search of praise. Jimmy's still catching his breath, his head tilted back in post-orgasm bliss. His fingers uncurl from Robert's hair, hands sliding away until they're resting on his shoulders. Jimmy moans a long sound of contentment, and, holy crap, Robert may have actually  _broken_  Jimmy.

He climbs into Jimmy's lap, knees on either side of his hips, and tips Jimmy's head up so he can kiss him back to life. Jimmy takes Robert's face in his hands and crushes their mouths together. Robert wonders if Jimmy can taste himself on his lips and tongue. He curls a hand around Robert's hip, snakes his fingers underneath his shirt and up the valley of his spine. Robert drops his head against Jimmy's shoulder, and Jimmy presses gentle kisses to the side of his face before murmuring, "Your turn?" at his ear.

Jimmy's bedroom is awesomely huge, but Robert doesn't get much time to focus on the architectural details when Jimmy's guiding him to the bed with warm hands and needy kisses. He lets Jimmy drag his shirt over his head, and he bumps against the edge of the mattress and goes willingly when Jimmy nudges him onto his back. Robert gazes up at him in arousal and reverence. Jimmy's leaning over him with love in his eyes and his long hair hanging down between them, and he looks like an angel—an angel Robert desperately wants to fuck him.

Then Jimmy kisses him, and they don't stop, just mouths breaking apart and reconvening with leisure, and it's so good Robert doesn't think he could want anything else until Jimmy's pulling denim and cotton down and away, leaving him naked. Robert's got half a mind to cover up, but the way Jimmy's sucking kisses into his throat says otherwise. Jimmy trails his tongue across the peak of Robert's nipple, making him arch into the heat of Jimmy's mouth and whimper a sound he'll absolutely deny making later. Jimmy paints a line straight down his middle, swirling around his navel and nipping at the jut of his hip bone, and Robert can feel Jimmy's hot breath  _so close_  to his dick it's obscene. Robert squirms, writhing his hips in the sheets.

Jimmy sits up and digs through the nightstand drawer. Robert opens his legs, ready and eager for whatever Jimmy wants to do. Jimmy snaps open a plastic bottle and gets his fingers wet. He lays a hand on Robert's thigh, presses a kiss to his knee, and Robert thinks he might actually die if Jimmy puts his fingers inside him.

He doesn't die, but the slick stroke of Jimmy's hand down there is just...  _Oh Jesus._  His legs slide over the sheets, and he shudders out a shocked breath as Jimmy's fingers glide over his opening. Jimmy watches him with an intensity that Robert feels pinned by, and it's all he can do just to watch the way Jimmy's face reacts to Robert's sighs and moans.

"So good," Robert groans, desperation curled around the words, and Jimmy rewards him by slipping a finger just barely inside. Robert twists his hips and arches his back, moans his approval of this new technique. Jimmy's just deep enough to make Robert shove forward, seeking that barely-there press of fingertips against his prostate.

Jimmy gives him what he needs and eases in deeper, never ceasing the low dip of his hand. Robert huffs out broken sounds of want, because he's not going to last if Jimmy keeps touching him like this and making him swell and sweat and ache. It's too much, too hot, orgasm hanging just out of reach, and Jimmy's fingers stroke and slide inside of him, stretching the tension in his nerves until he feels like he's on fire.

Then he's burning and blazing as the world spins and the earth shatters. Robert moans out something he's certain is embarrassing, but Jimmy keeps rubbing him inside and out, working him through it until his shaking ceases. Robert's breathing out quiet little pleas, and Jimmy keeps fucking watching him, like he  _loves_  him, and, shit, maybe he does.

Jimmy's fingers slide free, then he leans in enough to lick at the sticky mess over Robert's belly. Robert gapes at him and groans at the hot, slippery glide of Jimmy's tongue over his skin. He reaches up with a shaky hand, pushes the thick curtain of Jimmy's hair aside and holds it taut at his shoulder blades. Jimmy hums a contented noise as he swallows Robert's orgasm, like maybe Robert's not the only one getting off on this.

Jimmy's mouth is salt-bitter, and he fits perfectly into the space between Robert's hips. Robert can't help but keep him there, legs slung around Jimmy's own in a way that feels dirty. Jimmy kisses the line of his jaw, sucking right below his ear, and Robert wants to return the favor. Robert pushes Jimmy's shirt over his shoulders, careless hands tossing it over the side of the bed. He forgets how to catch his breath at the sight of Jimmy bare-chested before him. It's startling how much he wants this, how much he wants Jimmy to wreck him and break him open.

His hands skim over the perfect curve of Jimmy's back, his shoulders, down the reedy lengths of his arms. Jimmy just keeps adoring his mouth with kisses, nipping and biting at his lips. Robert traces the valley of Jimmy's spine with a fingertip, all the way to the waistband of his pants. He doesn't waste time with the catch and zipper, just shoves them over and down Jimmy's hips until they're both a braided tangled of flesh.

Jimmy's making the hottest fucking sounds Robert's ever heard as his curious hands skim across bare thighs. His palms brush over Jimmy's ass, around the bare, warm curve of his hip to the place where he's hard and wanting. Robert curls his fingers around Jimmy's dick, drawing a low groan from his throat. He tilts his head and leeches a kiss to the side of Jimmy's throat. Jimmy lets himself be marked, rocks his hips into Robert's fist. But Robert doesn't want Jimmy to come like this, messy and frantic in his hand, so he loosens his fingers and digs into the bony plane of Jimmy's hip instead. Jimmy moans a contented noise against the air, his hair spilling in waves over Robert's chest.

"I want this. I want you," Robert sighs out, not above begging. "Please."

Jimmy catches the back of Robert's knee and kisses the top of it in a way that's strangely intimate. Robert's never trusted anyone the way he trusts Jimmy. He always imagined his first time with a man as a rough, impersonal thing behind a pub, some aggressive bloke shoving into him from behind and yanking his hair. Lying underneath someone who trusts and loves and accepts him is a hell of an improvement.

Jimmy doesn't hurry him, just kisses him again and puts his hands all over, experimenting with different pressures to pull a variety of responses out of Robert. Jimmy touches him with a gentle, practiced precision, like he knows exactly where to squeeze, caress, and kiss. Under Jimmy's hands, Robert feels like an instrument, tuned in just the right way for every greedy dig of fingertips and flick of tongue at a nipple. Jimmy presses his mouth to the inside of Robert's thighs, soft lips and sharp teeth, and Robert can't imagine being anywhere else.

He sighs Jimmy's name and cards a hand through his hair. Jimmy breathes hot and wet, so fucking close to his dick, and Robert  _cannot_  think about his dick in Jimmy's mouth or he's going to blow his load right now. Jimmy grabs the bottle from the edge of the bed and runs a slippery hand over his dick once, twice, before he eases his fingers in. Robert groans, thigh sliding over Jimmy's waist. He feels wide open, ready for whatever Jimmy wants to do; Jimmy can feel it too, so he lines himself up and eases in, one slow, careful push.

Robert opens so fucking easily around Jimmy's dick, and he almost expects Jimmy to make a joke about it, but Jimmy just groans the dirtiest sound Robert's ever heard in his life once he's buried to the hilt. It doesn't hurt, not like Robert thought it would, but it's sharp and intimate and hot in a way there's no words for. Robert hooks his ankles around Jimmy's hips, and they move together, slow and unhurried, because they've got all the time in the world to get this right. Jimmy makes soft, stunned noises with each push, and Robert tries to coax out more by pressing into the insistent shove of hips.

They fit together perfectly, and it's all very overwhelming, almost too much. Jimmy's even more beautiful like this, his mouth half-open in stunned pleasure in the interim between kisses. Robert kisses him until his lips are flushed pink, until he's breathing hot and wild against Robert's mouth. This is as much a first time for Jimmy as it is for Robert, and Robert doesn't want to disappoint. Jimmy murmurs Robert's name, slow and silky at his ear, and his fingers dig into Robert's thigh.

"Oh God, I can't—" Jimmy gasps, losing his voice as their hips roll in tandem.

"It's okay. We can do this again—as much as you want to.  _If_  you want to." Robert kisses him until they're both breathless, the world too bright and sharp, and Jimmy claws at the pillow behind Robert's head as his hips stutter and slow.

He doesn't expect Jimmy to fall apart first, but Jimmy's gone, totally gone, a long choked noise in his throat as he crumbles in a messy shiver of release. He keeps pushing in, desperate for the aftershocks of orgasm, and Robert falls over the edge, his fingers dragging down Jimmy's back in a fleeting attempt to hold on to this bright, imperfect moment.

They're light-headed and breathless when it's all over, shaking against each other from the brutal waves of pleasure. Jimmy kisses Robert like it's a prayer, gasping, "I love you, I love you," in hot, shaky breaths as he leaves Robert's mouth wet and red and numb. "You have to know that," he rasps. "I'll always, always want you—want to be with you."

There are no fucking words. Robert gapes at him, his mouth half-open in shock and a desperate need for air. Jimmy would be an amazing cult leader, because the way he's looking at Robert right now is more intoxicating than all the ale in London; Robert would literally do anything for this gorgeous man. He's never known it's possible to want something so much.

It scares the hell out of him that Jimmy could feel the same way.


	6. Chapter 6

Robert wakes up in Jimmy's bed in a well-fucked, half-asleep stupor. The sun's peeking through the curtains, casting orange beams across the sheets. He smells like Jimmy, which contributes nicely to the morning erection he's sporting. Jimmy's gone from the bed, and Robert remembers how they slept together: Jimmy wrapped around him, the warmth of his cheek against Robert's skin and his thigh between Robert's knees. He remembers the way Jimmy's hair fanned out across his chest, the way his fingers twitched in his sleep and the soft cadence of his breathing.

Robert's clothes are neatly laid over the back of a nearby chair.  _Thoughtful_ , Robert thinks with a smile. He dresses in a hurry and hopes he's not in the midst of an unfortunate hair situation, because he can't find a mirror and doesn't want to waste too much time looking for one.

Jimmy's downstairs at the table, nursing a breakfast of eggs and toast like it's some arduous thing. His fingers are folded around the curve of a tea mug as he stares out the window. Robert wonders what he sees out there.

"Morning," Robert says softly into the silence. He pads across the floor to Jimmy and kisses the crown of his head, lays his hands upon Jimmy's shoulders. Jimmy's tense under Robert's hands, like he's uncomfortable in his own skin. "How did you sleep?"

Jimmy makes a noise that says nothing at all.

"Not a morning person, are you, Pagey?" Robert chuckles, his hands sliding away from Jimmy's shoulders as he heads for the kitchen. "It's alright, neither am I. My parents always gave me grief about it. They still do, on occasion. I s'pose I'm just not meant to function like a normal person," he laughs. He finds leftover eggs in the pan, wonders if it's his place to just take. "May I have the rest?"

"Go ahead," Jimmy says, so Robert fixes himself a plate and toasts up a couple slices of bread.

He's rummaging through the fridge when he says, "You don't have any jam, do you?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"I don't like it."

"How can you not like jam?" Robert asks, bewildered.

"Because it's disgusting," Jimmy says, and Robert can practically see the way his nose crinkles around the word.

"Ah, you must not've had proper jam, then. It ought to taste divine, like something fit for the gods."

"Only you could wax poetic about something so bloody mundane."

Robert sits across from Jimmy at the small table and decides he'll have to make do with butter on his toast. They make stilted small talk over breakfast, or, rather,  _Robert_  makes stilted small talk while Jimmy occasionally makes a noise of interest or disapproval. It quickly becomes clear that Jimmy regrets last night to a staggering capacity and really hopes Robert never mentions it again. Which, yeah, they did move a little fast. Robert thought they'd be more tentative and self-conscious about evolving their friendship into one that includes nudity and sexual touching. He definitely didn't expect to have sex with Jimmy the same day as their first kiss. It doesn't feel wrong, but Robert can tell Jimmy's done something new here.

Robert valiantly avoids asking about  _them_  or their relationship, because if Jimmy wants to back off and slow down for a while Robert's got to be okay with that. But Jimmy's somber mood doesn't improve, so Robert decides to poke at it a bit after breakfast.

"Is everything okay? 'Cause you seem... weird today." Robert holds his breath for a moment when Jimmy doesn't answer. "Is it me? Did I do or say something to make you uncomfortable?"

Jimmy shakes his head, his dark hair rippling in waves. "I'm not a morning person," he says, trying a smile, but it doesn't reach his eyes.

Robert wonders what Jimmy might be hiding, if he's too polite to tell Robert to fuck off. Leaving Robert's clothes in a neat arrangement in the bedroom was probably Jimmy's way of asking him to leave. Robert may have overstayed his welcome here. He should go before he screws up this relationship in record time.

"I should be off," Robert says, tugging the edge of his shirt down. He's going to face the inquisition when he gets home if Bonzo knows he's been gone all night; Bonzo can be bizarrely parental sometimes.

Robert's moving for the door when he asks, "Would it be overly optimistic of me to ask if you want to go out again sometime? In a... date sort of way?" He knows he's pushing, but he really likes Jimmy and wants to continue seeing him, even if they don't end up touching each other's genitals for a while.

Jimmy looks mortally wounded, as if Robert's suggested something terrible. He takes a breath, his mouth twisting a bit. "I don't—I don't think that's going to be a possibility."

"Oh." Robert feels every bit a clumsy, inexperienced teenager. "W—well, could we just be friends, then?"

The longest silence in the history of ever passes by before Jimmy says, "It's better if we're not friends. Trust me."

Wow. Talk about rejection. Robert's reeling from the words, and his aching heart compels him to ask, "Why? I mean—Did I do something wrong?" He hates how much it sounds like begging.

Jimmy moves closer, his eyes tightening, and it seems like he's going to shove Robert out the door. But he simply says, "Other than how you're so blindingly naïve to the world around you? 'Strangers are just friends waiting to happen'? Are you bloody serious? It's a miracle you haven't been flayed and left in an alley by someone less considerate than I am! How have you gotten on this long with all the intelligence of a boiled potato?"

Jimmy's words punch a hole straight through Robert's chest.

"Or how about the way you prattle on about everything—and I do mean  _everything_ —as if it's all amusing or interesting? You wouldn't know an amusing anecdote if it got up and gave you a haircut, would you? There are amoeba on Saturn with more interesting things to say."

Robert stares at Jimmy, uncomprehending, his body going numb and cold under the ice of his words. Shameful tears spill from his eyes, and pain spreads through his chest like vines.

"And you delude yourself by thinking you're some great singer, even though you're terrible," Jimmy continues. He glances off as he speaks. "You've all the vocal sophistication of a dying animal, Robert. That's why you haven't had a modicum of success. If you performed for a crowd that wasn't stoned out of their minds, you'd be charged with the mass suicide of the audience."

Robert doesn't know why Jimmy's suddenly so harsh and cruel when only hours ago he'd whispered "I love you" over Robert's lips. Part of him wants to ask what he's done or said to earn such a brutal verbal beating, but the rest of him is too stunned and wounded to form words.

Jimmy reaches out and opens the front door. He doesn't even look angry, just...  _done_. "Go home, Robert. Go home to your parents, because you are every inch a child."

Robert blinks, his eyes suddenly blurry as awareness trickles through his veins. His chest hitches with a sob that makes him feel like a stupid, histrionic infant. "I'm sorry," Robert blubbers out, his voice barely a whisper.

"Take care of yourself," Jimmy says, the stiffness in his voice cooling into something resembling fondness. "Don't do anything stupid."

Robert manages to nod. He can't speak through the way his throat's locked up tight.

Something flickers over Jimmy's face for a split-second, but he rearranges his features into the same cold, unfeeling mask. "Goodbye, Robert. Have a good life."

Robert's got no idea how he manages to step out into the sunlight, because his legs feel deadened, like they might give out underneath him. Blood pounds in his ears. This is a nightmare. There has to be a way out. Why can't he just wake up?

Jimmy doesn't wait for him to remember how to speak. He just shuts the door once Robert's out, and Robert hears the click of the lock from the other side.

And then he's left standing there on the doorstep of Jimmy's boathouse wondering what the hell he did wrong. It hasn't even been twelve hours since Jimmy spoke of how much he loved Robert and would always want him. How could Robert have screwed things up so badly? It's not as if he dropped his pants in front of a priest or anything. He just doesn't know when to shut his sodding face, and Jimmy hates everything about him. No big deal or anything.

He's the headmaster for life of the Robert Plant School For the Socially Fucked.

On shaky legs, he starts his trek back to the bus stop. The brilliant green of the forest seems to mock him now, its bright colors taunting him with empty promises of an idyllic life on the countryside with Jimmy. Robert barely knows where he's going—Jimmy's house is tucked away in the middle of fucking nowhere—and he's miles away from home, but he moves forward without thinking. He has to keep going, stay one step ahead of the pain threatening to drown him.

The walk of shame's never been so shameful.

Robert trudges through the woods, humming quietly to himself. Time feels irrelevant here. It could be hours or seconds passing by as he finds his way to the road into town Jimmy showed him yesterday. He's surprised by his own inner strength; though his eyes sting with bitter tears, he hasn't completely broken down yet. That's coming later, of course, when he gets home and can sob freely and loudly into a pillow.

God, Bonzo's going to have a field day with this. How many "I told you so"s will Robert have to endure before shutting himself in the privacy of his bedroom? Tears ought to scare him off; Bonzo hates waterworks, doesn't know how to deal with them.

The train ride to Stourport takes much too long, and there's nothing for Robert to do but try his hardest not to think about the pain clawing its way to the surface. The awareness is coming quickly now. Robert doesn't know what to focus on. The  _Evermore_  series is tarnished by its association with Jimmy. And how many of Robert's favorite records have been ruined the same way?

So Robert distracts himself by planning. He plans his next move and thinks of all the things he enjoys doing that might bring in a steady income, unwilling to imagine a career as a singer. Because that skirts too close to Jimmy's earlier criticisms, and he wants to stay far away from that.

Robert thinks he deserves a goddamn award for keeping himself numb long enough to reach the steps of his flat. He's putting the key in the lock when the pain knocks him breathless, and his chest rattles with the force of the sobs he's been holding at bay. His lungs ache. Robert takes a deep breath that shakes him a little, and he opens the door.

At first everything's okay, like maybe he'll have the place to himself for a bit. But then Bonzo's voice calls out from another room: "That you, Robert?"

Robert sniffles, laughs a humorless sound under his breath, because that's just begging for a smart-ass retort, but he can't even think of one.

Bonzo emerges from his bedroom, scratching his stomach. "Fuck, you ought'a ring next time you stay out all night. Had me worried sick." That's when Bonzo gets a good look at Robert, and his entire demeanor shifts into protective-big-brother mode. He rushes to him and clasps his hands around Robert's shoulders. "Jesus Christ, what happened to you?"

Robert must look worse than he thought. He shakes his head, keeps his hair in front of his face like a shield. "Nothing. I'm fine."

"You're a shit liar, mate. Where were you?"

Robert refuses to look at him. He needs to keep his composure, just long enough to convince Bonzo he's fine. "With Jimmy..." Agony rips through him at the sound of the name on his tongue.

Bonzo's grip tightens, and Robert can feel the anger brimming under the surface. "I'm gonna kill 'im—"

"No," Robert pleads. "It's not his fault. I just—I got lost on the way to the bus stop."

"Why the bloody hell wasn't he with you?"

"I didn't want him to come," Robert says lamely as a fresh set of tears streak down his cheeks. "He was still tired so I told him I would go myself."

Bonzo's mouth twitches into a frown underneath his moustache. "If you got lost, you'd duck into a pub and ask for directions. Or, if there weren't buildings around, you'd commune with the wildlife. You wouldn't cry about it." Bonzo eyes him, doubtful. "Did he break up with you?"

Robert shakes his head. "He didn't do anything. It's not his fault," he whimpers, sounding absolutely helpless.

Bonzo breathes out a deep sigh, lets his hands fall away. He looks like he wants to argue, knows Robert's hiding something, but he doesn't press the matter. "If you say so." Robert moves for his bedroom as casually as he can. "But if you ever want me to knock some sense into the bastard—"

"John," Robert snaps, and that's the sound of thin ice right there.

Bonzo closes his mouth and nods. "Right. Sorry."

Tears rise in Robert's eyes again, and his chest bubbles with the pressure of sobs. He immediately shuts himself in his bedroom where he can be alone with the pain. Robert feels the cool press of the pillow against his cheek, and he gasps, sensing the slow unraveling of his control. He wishes he could shed his own skin and become someone else, someone strong enough to handle all this emotional wreckage. His insides feel bruised and battered, like he's been shaken too hard by uncaring hands.

His chest spurs out quiet little sobs, and Robert gives himself over to it all, lets the waves of pain rise up and wash over him.

* * *

It takes Robert a day or two to realize all the things that don't make sense about Jimmy's vicious rejection. First of all, it came right the fuck out of nowhere. Robert's spent a decent amount of time with Jimmy, enough to know he's not the type to just randomly burst out into angry diatribes.

Second, Jimmy's face didn't match his words. He didn't look infuriated or enraged; he actually looked kind of placid, as if he were reading from a script. In some spots, he seemed pained, like he might have been fighting some sort of intestinal upset.

Third, every criticism poked at Robert's insecurities, all the things he stresses about. Something about that seems much too calculated. Sure, if Jimmy wanted to hurt him he might hit Robert in all the places that are much too tender, and Robert wishes he had better reasoning than "because I don't think he would do that" to justify himself, but there it is. Robert  _knows_  Jimmy, and twisting the knife to be cruel doesn't seem like Jimmy's style.

Fourth, Jimmy said he could listen to Robert talk all day about the things he loves. So why would Jimmy suddenly cite that as a reason to despise him? It's not as if Jimmy didn't know how often Robert slips into overexcited monologues; he knew this was part of the package the first time they met, yet he voluntarily subjected himself to it, and for what, exactly? Sex? Jimmy knew from the get-go that Robert was attracted to him; if sex was what he was after, he could've made overtures much, much sooner.

Fifth, after Jimmy's cutting remarks he wished Robert well. Who does that? Who tells someone they loathe to "have a good life" or "take care of yourself"? Jimmy didn't say it with an edge of smugness or faux sincerity. He sounded genuinely caring, like he was being honest. That's the vital piece Robert can't make sense of, the square peg in the round hole.

Lastly, Jimmy knows Robert doesn't live at home, but he told him to "go home to your parents." Granted, he may have phrased it that way merely to insult Robert, but after all the other inconsistencies it doesn't add up.

Robert thinks there's something else at play here. Maybe he's being hopelessly naïve, but, in his heart, he doesn't believe Jimmy meant a word of any of that. It's the "why" he can't figure out. Why would Jimmy push him away so harshly if it wasn't honest?

If Jimmy regretted sleeping with him, all he had to do was just ignore Robert. Don't answer the phone when he calls. Waffle a bit when making plans. It's not like they'd run the risk of seeing each other at the market or the pub. It wouldn't be difficult to avoid Robert if that was Jimmy's intention.

And Robert can't ignore that Jimmy said "I love you," how he promised he'd always want to be with him forever. The unfettered honesty in his voice... Something within Robert recognizes the truth, and that's why those words negate all the rest.

Screw it, Robert's going to Pangbourne. If Jimmy turns him away, well, he'll deal with that, but he's not leaving until he gets his say. He's very opinionated like that.

Robert's so focused on how he'll approach Jimmy that he doesn't think to sneak out the front door, which earns him a critical glance from Bonzo. "Where are you off to?"

"Uh..."

Bonzo lifts an eyebrow.

"I'm going to see Jimmy." He ought to earn some points for being honest, at least.

Bonzo scowls at Robert, eyes burning with disapproval. "The same bloke who threw you over the other day?"

"I think this is all just a big misunderstanding," Robert says. "If I could just talk to him, maybe we could sort this all out."

"So ring him."

"If show up at his home, he can't exactly hang up on me."

Bonzo snorts. "That's promising."

Robert huffs a loud, deep sigh. "I know you'll never see him the way I do—"

"God, I should hope not."

"But I just need to talk to him where he can't send me away." It sounds pretty unsavory said out loud like that, but Robert's ignoring that for now. "He's not a bad person, Bonzo. He's just... sad. He doesn't think he deserves nice things."

Bonzo rolls his eyes. "Why couldn't you fall for a normal person?" he grumbles. His protests don't deter Robert, who's moving for the door. "If he makes you walk all the way to the bus stop again, I get to clobber him."

"No."

"God damn it."


	7. Chapter 7

It's raining in Pangbourne when Robert steps off of the train. The sky is a stormy grey, the wind blowing sharp and wet against his face as he traverses through the patter of rain. The Thames roars with rushing tides, swells of water crashing against the river banks. A rumble of thunder shakes the earth. Robert hugs himself in a meager attempt to shield his arms from the cold; he wishes he'd worn something with longer sleeves, at least, but he had no way of anticipating the weather.

He shivers his way to Jimmy's boathouse, his teeth chattering and skin prickling. He climbs the steps onto the porch and knocks on the door. No answer. Robert waits about fifteen seconds before knocking again. God, maybe he's wrong about this. Maybe Jimmy actually hates him.

Of course, there are other reasons why Jimmy isn't answering the door, the obvious being that he's gone out for the day. But his vitriol-filled words still linger under Robert's skin like shards of glass, and it's hard to shake the suspicion that he's unwanted.

Maybe he should look in the window around the side of the building; Jimmy could be hurt and unable to answer the door. Robert moves to do just that when the front door swings open, and he's hit with a splash of water that turns frigid against his clothes and skin. He steps back, slinging water droplets off of his face and hair and hands. "Was that really necessary? As if I'm not wet enough already?"

When Robert gets the water out of his eyes, he sees Jimmy standing in the doorway, a small white bottle clutched in his hand and a look of panic on his face. "What are you doing here?" he hisses, his gem-like eyes wide in horror. He looks sleep-starved and malnourished, as if stress has wrecked him and made him its bitch.

None of this adds up. Jimmy doesn't look or sound like he's angry at Robert. In fact, he looks... sick.

Oh, holy fucking hell, what if he's dying?

"You have to get out!" Jimmy rasps. "You can't be here!"

Robert moves closer and glances around Jimmy to see inside the house. The living room is pitch-black, save for a handful of lit candles dotted around the room. "Why's it so dark? Are you"—Robert searches for the word—"doing a séance?" It's a weird, random guess, but Jimmy doesn't deny it. He just pushes at Robert's chest as Robert tries to make his way inside.

"Please, you can't be here," Jimmy chokes out in a strangled plea, confirming Robert's hypothesis that he doesn't  _want_  Robert to leave.

"What's going on, Pagey? What are you afraid of?"

Jimmy looks at him with helpless, red-rimmed eyes. "I warned you to stay away from me," he says, sounding about as threatening as a kitten. "You need to go, Robert. I can't let you see—" Jimmy cuts himself off and pushes harder at Robert's chest, but Robert's not budging.

"See what? Are you in trouble? Maybe I can help you."

"No!" Jimmy roars. His hands curl into fists around the damp material of Robert's t-shirt.

"I can't just go home and not care," Robert pleads.

Jimmy's shaking his head and backing away. "Please, I don't want you here."

"That's a bloody lie, and you know it." Robert advances on him in one, two, three long strides. Jimmy chokes on a startled gasp and stares at him. His gaze drops to Robert's feet, then up to the ceiling. Robert follows Jimmy's line of sight. There's a large, familiar sigil painted on the ceiling: the pentagram devil's trap from the  _Evermore_  books.

But  _Evermore_ is just a book series. Even though Jimmy penned the novels, it doesn't explain why he'd have one of the symbols painted on his ceiling. Robert distinctly remembers the devil's trap being absent the last time he was here. So this must be a recent addition to the décor.

Could Jimmy just be balls-out crazy, too obsessed with his own work to separate reality and fiction? It makes the most sense out of all the possibilities, but Robert doesn't think that's the case. If Jimmy's that enamored with the fictional world he's created, the fact that he's Nelson Storm should have been his opening gambit once Robert revealed his fanaticism for the books. None of this cryptic shit makes any sense under that theory.

So Robert tackles the question from a different angle: why would Jimmy need protection from demons? The puzzle pieces shift around in his head as he builds a new theory. Jimmy is suave, unfairly attractive, and mindblowingly talented at pretty much anything he does, as evidenced in his guitar and writing skills. His bookshelves are filled with ancient grimoires, and texts about occultism, demonology, magic and spells. He abandons his passion for guitar in lieu of writing novels about supernatural creatures.

All of a sudden, everything starts to shift. He remembers the legend of his favorite blues singer, Robert Johnson. Legend has it that Johnson made a pact with the devil for his level of skill. Could Jimmy have done the same? Are all the monsters and magic Jimmy wrote about real?

Robert looks into Jimmy's haunted, fearful eyes and feels his innocence being stripped away.

"Oh, Pagey, what did you do?"

Jimmy makes an anguished, hopeless sobbing sound. Robert closes the distance between them and crushes Jimmy to his chest, wrapping his arms around him and holding him close. Jimmy shakes in his arms and buries his face in Robert's shoulder. He clutches at Robert's back, hands clenched around damp cotton, and Robert hears soft little sobs spilling out of him. All Robert can do is hold him tight and feather his fingers through Jimmy's hair, too frightened that anything else might be the wrong move. Jimmy clutches at him harder, like he thinks if he just holds on long enough everything will turn out okay in the end.

"Tell me what's wrong," Robert murmurs at his ear.

"You won't want to be with me anymore."

"Impossible." Jimmy sniffles at his shoulder, and Robert takes hold of his face to make Jimmy look at him so he can see the unwavering love in his eyes. "There's nothing you could tell me that could make me stop wanting you."

Jimmy studies his face, searching for the lie. He doesn't find one, because Robert's telling the truth. Jimmy blinks, sending fat tears rolling down his splotchy cheeks. "Even if I told you it's all real? That every spell, creature, spirit, symbol, and ritual in those books is based on fact, not fiction?"

Robert's breath hitches in his chest. The room grows still, the only sounds the howl of the wind outside and the distant rumble of thunder. Robert really hates being right sometimes.

He swallows thickly and finds his voice. "Even then."

Jimmy breathes out a deep sigh. "You're an idiot," he says, but he doesn't mean it.

"If it's true, why did you deny it before?"

"You were getting too close to the truth," Jimmy says, raking a hand through his hair. "If you figured it out... you'd never be the same. But now you'll always know there's things out there in the dark. I just wanted you to keep your innocence a little while longer."

That's kind of sweet, in a weird, archaic sort of way. "Tell me what happened."

Jimmy moves for the couch, grabs something off of the cushion and tosses it to Robert. It smacks Robert in the chest before he catches it.

"A hex bag?"

"To shield you from demons," Jimmy says, but Robert knows what they're for; he's read the books. Robert pockets the charm and sits beside Jimmy on the couch. Tears stream down Jimmy's face before he wipes them away with the heel of his hand. He's shaking a bit. Robert slides an arm around his waist and tugs him closer in hopes of comforting him.

Jimmy turns his head to look at Robert. "Remember when I told you how I quit the Crusaders?" His voice is softer than a whisper.

Robert nods. "You fell ill..."

"Deathly ill," Jimmy corrects. "It didn't look like I was going to pull through. Ordinarily, glandular fever isn't fatal, but mine was compounded by exhaustion, fatigue, and malnourishment. I was hospitalized for days, almost unresponsive. My manager-slash-bandmate Neil Christian was there—I suppose he felt guilty for subjecting the lot of us to such awful conditions. He told my parents..." Jimmy chokes on the words and starts over. "He told my parents there was a way to save me."

His lips quiver like he doesn't want to continue. "I was reading into the occult at the time, and I had shared some of it with him. So he knew about black magic and all that." Jimmy wipes his newly-watery eyes with his hand.

Robert wants to destroy everything and everyone that ever hurt Jimmy, because the pain etched onto his face now is unfathomable. No one should ever look like this, so racked with guilt and pain.

"Neil told my parents about a ritual to summon a crossroads demon," Jimmy continues. "A normal person would have laughed in his face and called him a lunatic, but I was seventeen, their only child, and they were desperate..." His head drops into his hands, and he tugs at his hair like it's the cause of all his misery.

Robert feels the blood drain from his face. "They made a deal..." He tries to solve the mystery of how Jimmy's manic behavior fits into all of this. He thinks about how Jimmy spoke so reverently of his parents, the missing artwork on the walls, the lost expression on his face when Jimmy told him to go back to his parents.

_Oh God, no..._

"They never told me, of course," Jimmy continues. "But Neil did. After two years had run out on their deal..." He chokes on a sob, his throat tight, and says, "I couldn't let them die, Robert. I couldn't. They're my parents."

The words crash down on him like anvils. Robert slumps, his heart ripped anew. "You traded your soul for theirs."

Jimmy nods, looking agonized. Tears spill from his eyes, but he doesn't bother wiping them away this time.

Robert feels like crying, too. "And it's come due."

Another nod. The thick curtain of his hair falls in front of his face.

Now he understands why Jimmy had been so shaken by Robert's reappearance here: Jimmy knows something's coming for him.

Jimmy breathes out a harsh sigh through his nose. His lower lip quivers when he says, "You weren't supposed to come back. I thought we would just part ways, you'd forget about me, and your life would go on as it should. But I could see that you weren't willing to let go so easily. So the only way for my death not to hurt you would be if you hated me. I had to say the most horrible things to make you hate me, but they were lies, Robert, all of them."

Jimmy fixes him with a gaze so intense Robert almost shrinks away. "Please, tell me you know I didn't mean an awful word of it."

Robert laughs in an unsteady huff of breath. A sense of rightness and conviction washes through him. "I knew it," he murmurs, his mouth pulling into a crooked smile.

"Of course, it didn't work. As if you could ever believe I didn't love you," Jimmy says, the words shaking out of him. "Meeting you changed everything. I thought I could live out these last five years by myself, never seeking companionship, but..." He trails off, stares at the floor rug as if it holds the secret to life. "I got careless.  _Attached_."

It breaks Robert's heart in a million different ways. Jimmy's been hiding his dark secret for five years, and it's probably cost him a great deal of sanity. Especially when you add on falling in love toward the end of your life with someone you're only going to hurt.

"I thought demon deals were ten years," Robert says once he's gathered his thoughts.

"For my parents, it was split between the both of them. Five and five. Me"—Jimmy gives a humorless chuckle—"well, I suppose demons don't appreciate repeat customers. 'What is it with you Pages? When one of you's up the creek another's itching to sell his soul.'"

"So you started writing  _Evermore_  when you found out this stuff is real?"

"If I continued on as a guitarist and gained any sort of acclaim, my sudden disappearance would, to put it lightly, arouse suspicion. And I didn't want my death to gain some sort of cultish fame. You die a nobody, you're forgotten."

 _But not by your parents_ , Robert wants to say, but he knows Jimmy's analyzed every angle of this, and far be it for him to twist the knife any more.

Robert looks at him as if seeing him for the first time. "So you're just going to lay down and die?"

"If it means my parents live, then yes."

How could Jimmy have that low an opinion of himself when he's made Robert happier than he's ever been? "But they'll have to live without you," he croaks, treading dangerous ground. "They can't do it; that's why they struck the deal to begin with. How do you think your parents would feel if they knew you died for them?"

Jimmy winces like Robert's words are a knife wound in his gut. "They won't know how or why. Those murders popping up all over England? You figured it out, didn't you?"

Robert thinks back to the gruesome stories in the news lately. All unsolved murders, written off as animal attacks. But those people weren't killed by bears or wolves. "Hellhounds," Robert says in a whisper.

It makes a disturbing amount of sense. Those rich, affluent folk couldn't all have made their fortunes and fame through sheer luck and tenacity. Some of them cheated. And now they're paying the price.

"Of course, the news frames it like a modern-day Jack the Ripper. And I suppose my parents will have to live with that. It's unfortunate, and not what I would have wanted for them, but it's better than the alternative."

Robert swallows, his chest aching with sobs held at bay. He doesn't know how to make Jimmy see sense. His love hadn't been enough to pour life into Jimmy's black hole of a heart. Robert wants to hate himself for being foolish enough to think that he could save anyone.

Jimmy watches him intently. "I want to spend the rest of my life with you. Whether that's only today or not, that doesn't change how I feel."

Robert feels his heart stutter, because that's not the kind of thing you say to someone so soon. And maybe it doesn't mean that much considering Jimmy's on borrowed time right now, but it sounds like he's planned an entire future for them.

"Then do it," Robert says. "Let me help you, and we'll have the rest of our lives."

"You can't save me," Jimmy says, sounding agonized. "All the hex bags, Devil's Shoestring, and devil's traps in the world can only hold hellhounds at bay. Salt, iron nails, and explosives kill them, but these things are like the heads of a hydra."

"Hellhounds just do the dirty work, right?"

Jimmy gives him a curious look.

"I mean, if you go to a shop and get bad service, you don't complain to the cashier; you go to the manager."

Jimmy manages to follow Robert's convoluted metaphor. "You mean the demon who holds the deal?"

Robert stands up and starts pacing. He's not used to staying still for so long; it's unnatural. "Right. What if you could, I don't know, kill the demon? Would that undo the deal?"

Jimmy plucks at his lower lip while he thinks it over. "Aside from ancient weapons we've got no chance in hell of finding, you can only kill a demon by burning its earthly remains or through a spell that requires the heart of a virgin." He gives Robert an inquisitive look. "Know any virgins?"

Yeah, that's out. Robert lifts his gaze to the ceiling again and sees the devil's trap. "When I came inside, you looked stunned, like I shouldn't have been able to walk through that," he says, pointing to the sigil.

Jimmy follows his line of sight. "I feared a demon might assume your form to get close to me."

That explains the splash of liquid when Robert opened the door. Holy water.

"If that were the case, the demon couldn't step out of the circle?"

Jimmy nods. "Yeah, it immobilizes them."

"And they can't leave unless you break the lines."

Jimmy's eyes narrow, like he's trying to figure where Robert's going with this. Suddenly, Robert spins, facing Jimmy with wide-eyed enthusiasm. "What if you forced the demon to make a deal with  _you_?"

"What?"

"You trap a demon, and make them barter their freedom for your soul!" Robert exclaims. "The deal's broken, and everything's fine, right?" He's gesticulating with his hands in a way he knows is obnoxious and overly animated, but Jimmy doesn't seem to care, too focused on the solution he's presenting.

"That's the stupidest fucking thing I've ever heard," Jimmy says around a breathy, hysterical laugh. "And I'm desperate enough to try it."

Robert tries to remember how conjuration was performed in the books. "So, what do we need? Herbs, candles...?"

"Set atop a Sigil of Baphomet, with candles placed on each point of the pentagram," Jimmy says. "I know the incantation. But the demon will manifest in the nearest vessel." He gives Robert a pointed look, and it takes a moment for the subtext to sink in.

"Oh."

Jimmy wipes his palms on his trousers and stands up. He moves over to one of the many bookshelves, scanning the rows for a particular tome. He finds a worn, leather-bound volume and flips it open to the page he needs. "This is an anti-possession symbol," he says, holding the book so Robert can see. Robert moves closer. The symbol is a pentagram encased in what appear to be flames. "I'll paint one on you, you do the same for me."

"Will it stay on?"

"Unless you scratch it or wash it off, yes." He hands the book to Robert and heads for the staircase. "Let me get the paint."

Robert's left standing there holding a grimoire and wondering when his life became a hotbed of supernatural activity. He's got no idea if any of this crap is going to work, but it's better than nothing, isn't it? He's not going to let Jimmy die, even if it means painting magical symbols on each other's bodies and summoning a demon, and, man, that sounds weird even in his own head.

Jimmy comes back into the room holding a small pot of black paint. "Take off your shirt, unless you wanted me to go first."

The rush of chagrin and arousal nearly makes Robert dizzy. He has to steady himself on the couch so his legs don't drop out from under him. "Oh—okay." He strips off his t-shirt, lets Jimmy sit beside him on the couch and place the pot of paint between them. "Is anywhere alright, or does it have to be someplace specific?"

"Over the heart is best," Jimmy says, and Robert turns his body so he's facing Jimmy. Jimmy dips two fingers into the inky black and carefully paints the beginnings of a pentagram on Robert's chest, right on top of the manic thrum of his heartbeat. It's weirdly intimate, being face-to-face like this, and even though they've done so much more Robert isn't sure how to feel about it. Each warm flare of Jimmy's breath twists him up in knots. He gasps a quiet noise when Jimmy's fingertips flare out for one of the flames and catch his nipple.

This is the absolute worst time to have a boner. God damn it. Robert takes a shaky breath, wills the blood to drain from his cheeks and his dick. There's no way Jimmy's oblivious to the effect he has on Robert—or practically anyone with a pulse. He watches the black paint glide over his skin, the precision of Jimmy's fingers, and it's finished in time that feels both too short and too long.

Jimmy wipes his hands on his pants again and pulls his shirt over his head. "My turn."

Robert looks at the symbol, which seems to have become infinitely more complicated than the last time he saw it. "It—it doesn't have to be perfect, does it? I don't have quite the artistic flair you do."

"You'll do fine," Jimmy reassures him with a smile that ought to be illegal when he's not wearing a shirt. Robert swallows thickly and dips his fingers into the paint. It's wet and gooey, and he hasn't the faintest idea how to do this. He doesn't want Jimmy to die because his body art skills are horrible. But Jimmy seems to trust him, and that says a hell of a lot.

He starts with the pentagram, drawing shaky lines across Jimmy's chest. Touching Jimmy like this, being so dangerously close to his clavicle, the hollow of his throat, his fucking  _nipples_ , is painfully and unfairly arousing. Jimmy's not even watching his hands, instead choosing to study Robert's face like it's a work of art, something worth admiring. Like he's trying to commit every feature to memory in case this  _is_  the last day of his life.

Robert squeezes his eyes shut and stills his hand. No, that's not going to happen. They're going to screw destiny right in the face, and Jimmy will live a long and happy life. Maybe that life will involve Robert, maybe not, but that's not important right now.

He's too afraid to meet Jimmy's eyes, scared he'll see something reverent and adoring there. Robert's hand shakes through the swirl, making the flames wobbly; the whole thing probably resembles a child's fingerpainting more than an actual tattoo, but Jimmy isn't voicing disapproval, so maybe Robert's doing okay.

Robert's thumb brushes over a nipple, then he hears Jimmy suck in a shuddery breath, and, nope, he's not connecting the two of those things at all. But his dick is so fucking hard, Jimmy's right here, and Robert knows Jimmy wouldn't stop him if he tried. Christ, this erection is literally life-threatening.

Robert valiantly ignores Jimmy's deliciously bare chest and manages to finish the tattoo without exploding from arousal. He risks a look at Jimmy, feels his insides curl and stretch. "Is that okay?"

Jimmy glances down at the symbol on his chest. "It's fine," he says with a soft smile, lifting his gaze back to Robert. Robert has to look away just so he can breathe. It hasn't been very long at all since they've been something more than friends, and Robert's still jittery with nerves when he thinks about kissing or touching Jimmy.

Jimmy curls his fingers around Robert's wrist and kisses him, a gentle, tender thing he shouldn't even be capable of. Robert sighs into his mouth, then Jimmy's tilting his head and nipping at Robert's lower lip, and Robert is completely okay with this. But Jimmy breaks away with an unnatural sharpness, like he's embarrassed over his own want. So that makes two of them.

"Sorry," he mumbles, tucking a piece of hair behind his ear. "This isn't the best time for that."

Robert wants to argue that there's never a bad time for Jimmy to kiss him, but, yeah, the whole séance thing takes precedence over their hormones. There will be plenty of time for sloppy makeouts and fucking later—if this ridiculous plan works.

"So... what do we do next?"

Jimmy stands up and retrieves another book from his bookshelf. "I'll collect the necessary herbs and candles. Would you draw the sigil? There's a room upstairs that's perfect for conducting the ritual. It's the first door at the top of the stairs."

"Was that part of the open house tour? 'And here we have a room that's perfect for conjuring demons.'"

Jimmy huffs a laugh, shakes his head like he cannot believe he's dating this idiot. He hands the book—open at the page displaying the proper sigil—to Robert. "The top of the desk should be sufficient," he says before disappearing into the kitchen. Robert grabs the pot of ink and heads up the staircase.

The room is enormous and probably serves as a study, seeing as there's more bookshelves and a desk near the edge of the room. Behind the desk are two glass doors leading out to the balcony. Through the glass, Robert sees the raucous river sloshing and crashing against the shore. He sets the book on the elegant wooden desk, switches on the lamp there.

He pushes aside the various items on the desk and dips his fingers into the pot. It's much easier, he finds, to draw on a canvas that isn't a living, breathing thing, especially one that he's not attracted to. He gets about halfway through the sigil before the stuffy air in the room bothers him.

Robert slides open the glass doors for some air. It smells crisp and stormy, rushing inside and tossing Robert's hair in the breeze. A distant roar of thunder bellows. The Thames batters the river banks with angry waves. There's an electric charge in the air that crawls over his skin. Robert shivers a bit from the breeze and the static.

Nearby, a hellhound howls a foreboding sound.

Footsteps pound their way up the staircase. "We don't have much time," Jimmy says, carrying an armful of candles and a bowl with a dry, green substance in it. He sets the candles down on the points Robert's already drawn, places the bowl in the middle of the sigil. "I lined the doors and windows with salt and goofer dust. Hung Devil's Shoestring over the doors. That should hold the hounds off long enough." His voice is fast and breathy, as if he's run a marathon. "Just finish the sigil."

Robert rushes over to the table. He gets his fingers dipped in the ink and hurries to finish, his linework a little less careful than before. Another howl pierces the air. Jimmy's hands still over the candles, and Robert notices the subtle shake there.

He reaches out, covers Jimmy's quaking hands with his own. "Hey, hey, Pagey, listen to me." Jimmy meets his eyes. "I won't let you die. I will find you a way through this, okay?"

On Robert's left, the wind blows into the room and whips the pages of the book in a frantic gust. Jimmy takes another book from the shelves and places it on top of the bowl to keep the herbs from blowing away. The wind tears a page from the sigil book, sending the paper swirling out the balcony doors.

Robert doesn't know why he rushes out to catch it; there's a microscopic possibility it's even the page he'd been referencing. Jimmy calls, "Just leave it!" but Robert barely hears him. Robert isn't aware this is the stupidest, most reckless thing he's ever done until he braces himself on the balcony railing, his free arm outstretched in an attempt to retrieve the missing page.

The paper blows away in the wind. That's when the balcony rail snaps and gives way under his weight.

For a split-second Robert feels his footing give out beneath him, then he's dropping through the air like a meteor. He screams a helpless, terrified sound, twirling in spirals to the river.

Oh no.

He's not going to make it to the water.

This is probably going to hurt.

The primitive instinct of survival takes over. Hurtling toward the earth, Robert sticks his left arm out to catch his fall.

The impact makes Robert realize how fragile he is. He slams into the ground, landing on hard metal from the railing. He wonders if he's gone through the earth itself, but the loud, sickening snap of bone tells him otherwise. Someone's shouting his name, then the world's a discordant mess of pain and everything's spinning. He's rolling down the incline, headed straight for the heaving, angry waves.

Robert tries to stop his roll by grabbing onto the earth. Pain shoots through his arm and blinds in a white-hot fury. He yelps and lets go, tumbling down the hill. Everything is blurry and hazy at the edges.

Robert plunges into the water. The waves crash over him, jerking him back and forth, pulling him deeper into the darkness. Robert tries to fight the current, but the pain in his left arm shuts down any self-preservation instinct. There's no reason for anyone to be in this much pain unless something's broken or unattached.

He can feel the water carrying him downstream. Robert pushes against the tide the best he can, but with one good arm he's not making much headway. His lungs swell around his last reserve of oxygen. He swims and swims, kicks his legs and claws through the water, desperate to break the surface. But the current flings him around and pushes him toward the floor of the river in a helpless spin.

God, he's going to drown. He is  _actually_  drowning right now.

There's nothing he can do to stop it. He has to break the surface. No matter how much it hurts, he'll have to use both arms or he's going to die.

Robert grits his teeth and pushes against the water. Pain screams through his broken arm. He wants to stop, but survival is all that matters now. Keep going. Don't stop.

Robert's lungs burn in a plea for air, suffocating from within. The next stroke of his arms sends stars exploding in his head, and he gasps out in pain. Water floods down his throat and into his lungs, choking him.

Robert thinks he hears Jimmy's voice before the world gurgles away as he sinks under the water.


	8. Chapter 8

"Robert? Robert!"

Something solid beats against Robert's chest, pushing water out of his lungs. He chokes and sputters, water burning his trachea as it coughs out of him. His eyes flutter open, stinging from the volley of water spewing from his nose and mouth. Through Robert's blurry vision, Jimmy comes into focus, anxiety all over his face.

"Come on, love, you've got to breathe," Jimmy begs, thready and panicked, smacking Robert between the shoulder blades. Water chokes out of Robert's lungs, and how the hell is he supposed to breathe with waterfalls pouring out of his face holes? He catches his breath, rasping a cough or two around the last remnants of water in his throat.

Jimmy takes Robert's face in his hands. Robert can hear the crashing waves and see the water heaving in front of him. It takes him a moment to realize he's on shore, lying on the ground. "Are you alright?" Jimmy asks, his voice shaky with worry. "Please,  _please_  tell me you're alright."

Robert focuses on remembering how to breathe. His lungs still burn from the water, making his chest feel like it's caving in on itself with each breath. When he closes his eyes, he can still feel the tug of the current, the swish and pull of the water around him. So he keeps them open, stares at Jimmy's cherubic face.

"N—no, I'm not," Robert manages to say. He tries to lift his left arm, and, whoa, no, that's a horrible idea. Pain rockets through his arm like he's been electrocuted.

"Your arm, isn't it?" Jimmy feathers his fingers over Robert's hand. His mouth presses into a thin line, his breath coming a little quicker. Robert follows Jimmy's line of sight and sees the cause of his distress. Robert's arm is at a weird, unnatural angle, the bone peeking out from the skin. His stomach roils, and he has to look away, because, yeah, it's exactly as horrible as it sounds.

"Don't touch it, don't touch it," Robert sputters out, sounding half-crazy.

"I'm not going to touch it," Jimmy says, soothing, and Robert believes him.

He looks at Jimmy, whose hair is wet and matted to his face. "Why are you wet?"

"You don't remember? You rolled into the river. I went in after you."

"What?" Robert cries, incredulous. "You told me you couldn't swim."

"It's not that difficult. Just use your arms, right?" Jimmy says, throwing Robert's earlier words back at him with a pained smile. "It's not as if you'd have much luck with one broken arm, after all."

Jimmy saved him? Robert doesn't know how that's even possible, but there's no one else around, and Jimmy's soaking wet. It makes total sense, yet it doesn't.

Robert can't help but stare at Jimmy's bare, dripping chest, though his awe turns to horror when he realizes what's missing. "The anti-possession symbol..." Robert brushes his good hand over Jimmy's chest where the sigil had been. "It's gone."

Jimmy nods. "The water washed them away."

The plural catches Robert's attention. He glances down at his own chest to find it bare. "Oh no..." There goes that plan. "What are we going to do?"

" _You_  are going to the hospital."

Robert chokes on a breath. "What about you?"

Jimmy doesn't answer, just looks off at nothing in particular. "I've put you in too much danger already."

"Are you mad? You just saved my life!"

"Alright, I'll give you that one. But that arm of yours needs tending to."

"No! I'm not—I'm not gonna lose you!"

"Yes, you are," Jimmy says, his brow a pained crease.

Robert whimpers as pain that has nothing to do with his arm crashes into him. There has to be a way to save Jimmy. "You're being selfish."

"Tough."

"You really think your parents haven't figured out what you've done?"

Jimmy's expression softens a bit.

"It's been five years since they made their deal. They have to know something's amiss by now."

After a quiet moment, Jimmy says, "They would never suspect me."

"Of course they would! No one but their own child could love them enough to make a deal for them, right? Unless your grandparents are still alive. But they know it was you, Pagey. You told me yourself—the person who suggested they make a deal was one of  _your_  friends." Robert's gesturing as wildly as he can with one good arm. He almost reaches to pull Jimmy closer but thinks better of it. "And of course he told you about it, as any friend would. If not through guilt, then maybe a drunk or blazed confession. But they have to know that wouldn't be kept secret very long, and what you would do when you found out..."

Jimmy looks at Robert for a very long time, in a way that only Jimmy's capable of.

"And for you to suddenly start bringing them your belongings... They  _know_." Clinging to his last-ditch effort, Robert says, "They've given you life twice already. You think they won't try for a third time?"

Jimmy's mouth drops open as if Robert's just slapped him. Robert panics that Jimmy's going to yell at him and leave him here with a broken arm, but all he does is look wounded.

"They're not just going to give up. You're their son; there's nothing they wouldn't do for you. How have you gone this long without realizing that?"

A spine-chilling howl fills the air, and Jimmy's lower lip quivers almost imperceptibly. Robert reaches up and smooths away the little "v" between Jimmy's eyebrows.

"Can you get back inside?"

"I've a hex bag on me," Jimmy says, patting one of his trouser pockets. "But I doubt it'll do me much good at this point."

"If we can get back into the house, we can still do the ritual."

"The hellhound's at my front door, Robert," Jimmy says, pleading. "We'll never make it. Not that close. And even if we do, we don't have time to paint the anti-possession symbols back on."

Robert shuts his eyes, trying to think of a way out of this nightmare. "Screw them, then. The demon won't want you anyway. It takes the nearest vessel? It takes me."

Jimmy looks as if he's just been stabbed by his dearest friend.

"Isn't that ideal? I'm the only one who would know to stand inside that devil's trap."

But Jimmy's shaking his head, tears spilling down his cheeks. "No, no, you can't. I've never tried an exorcism before. What if it doesn't work and you're stuck in there?"

"I trust you."

Jimmy gives him a crooked smile. "You shouldn't."

"It's better than just sitting 'round and letting you die." Robert pushes off the ground with his good arm, uses Jimmy for balance to help himself stand. Jimmy rises to aid him however he can, his arms around Robert's waist.

"Can you walk?"

"I broke my arm, Pagey, not my legs," Robert scoffs, though walking's not as easy as he thought it would be. A jittery panic makes his legs feel like they're about to give out underneath him, the after-effects of adrenaline. He hurries the best he can around the side of the house. He can hear the howling, but he doesn't see anything.

"It's gone," he murmurs, peering around the corner of the building at the front door.

Jimmy shakes his head, chewing his thumbnail. "No. It's there."

"Then why can't I see it—"

"Because you don't have hellhounds on your arse," Jimmy snaps, fear shaking around his voice.

Robert waits a moment. His spur-of-the-moment ideas aren't the best ones, but he doesn't have much choice right now, so they'll have to wing it. "I'll go in first. You follow right behind me. We'll line the doorway with goofer dust again, then you go upstairs and finish the ritual. I'll be waiting."

Robert doesn't give him time to argue, just darts around the building and makes a beeline for the front door. He hears another howl that scares the hell out of him, but he's pretty much committed at this point. He swings the front door open. "Come on!"

Jimmy rushes onto the porch before screaming an agonized sound and dropping to the ground like a marionette with its strings cut. He's halfway inside, his legs thrashing wildly against invisible jaws. Robert bends down and grabs Jimmy's arm, just enough to drag him all the way inside. He throws himself against the door. Pain screams through his broken arm.

Jimmy's making awful, childlike whimpering sounds on the floor while the hellhound pounds against the door. Robert scrambles to his feet and grabs the half-empty vial of goofer dust from the table. He drops to his knees and pours the dust in a line along the bottom of the door. The pounding stops, the world going still. Robert remembers how to breathe again.

"Pagey?" He rushes to Jimmy's aid, checking his torso for open wounds. He doesn't find anything. "Where is it?"

Jimmy shifts his right leg, hissing through his teeth at the movement. That's when Robert notices the blood stains and the shredded leg of his trousers. Robert doesn't want to look, he  _doesn't_ , but something horrible compels him to lift Jimmy's leg up just a bit and see the damage.

He really wishes he hadn't.

Jimmy props himself up on his elbows, drops his head back and sucks in a breath. "It's not as bad as it looks."

It looks pretty fucking horrible. Robert's skin hurts in sympathy. "Maybe I should do the summoning—"

"No," Jimmy growls through his teeth. "I'll do it."

"Can you walk?" Robert can't imagine how Jimmy could put any weight on that leg without collapsing like a clumsy ox. Christ, he's been through so much today. How much can his body take before he just  _can't_  anymore?

"I'll have to." Jimmy moves to stand up, and Robert's at his side helping him to his feet. Jimmy stumbles and staggers his way to the staircase, gripping the banister like his life depends on it. "I'm fine," he says, like he just knows Robert wants to rush to his aid, wrap him in a blanket and feed him soup. "Let's just get this over with." He takes the stairs one by one, careful not to put too much weight on his injured leg.

Robert watches Jimmy and reins in the urge to coddle him. "Be safe," he says, wincing at how stupid that sounds the moment it's out of his mouth. Why can't he stop saying dumb things? Honestly, it's a disease.

He waits until Jimmy's upstairs in the study before he lets the pain in his arm knock him askew. He slumps against the wall, completely fucking spent. His arm throbs in agony with each thump of his heartbeat. Robert keeps his eyes shut, but he still  _knows_  the fucking bone's poking out of the skin. He whimpers, tears stinging his eyes. He was right to hide this from Jimmy. If Jimmy knew how much pain he's in, Robert would be in an emergency vehicle right now. He wouldn't let Robert suffer, not at his expense.

He drops his head back and prays for Jimmy's poor, cursed soul.

The devil's trap is just a foot or so away. If he can just get there...

Robert drags himself closer. Every movement feels like he's trudging through morphine-infused molasses. As if he's in one of those awful dreams where you can't move fast enough though your brain's screaming at you to run. Robert's got no idea if he'd be any stronger if his left arm weren't broken. He definitely doesn't feel like the inability to use one of his appendages is doing him any fucking favors, though.

He gets himself inside the circle before his body just  _quits_. He doesn't know what being possessed by a demon is supposed to feel like. Will it hurt? Will he black out and have no memory of it? Or will he be helpless to do anything but watch?

Robert knows right away when it happens. He's acutely aware that there's something foreign and alien inside of him. But the demon seems to have a startling amount of control over his motor skills, because he stands up and calls, "Oh, Pagey!"

Oh hell no.

Robert realizes this is kind of a terrible idea. This is his body, damn it. His body and his soul and his voice, and no one's got the right to use it except for him.

Jimmy emerges at the top of the stairs, looking harrowed and pale at the sight of Robert.

"Oh, Pagey, we really have to stop meeting like this. Haven't you learned your lesson in bartering with demons?"

No, no, no, it's not fair that the demon gets to use Robert's voice, the same voice that Jimmy fell in love with. Robert wants to break out of his skin and scream that this isn't him, but he can't get the words out.

Jimmy blinks hastily, his throat bobbing as he swallows back the lump there. He makes it down the stairs easier than going up, but not without effort. His right leg quakes a little under his weight.

"I don't think you're in any position to sound so smug," Jimmy says with a scowl.

The demon throws his arms out to the side, and Robert feels every bit of that. "Why not? I'm lovin' the new model. You've got good taste, at least. It's a shame he's not gonna stick around for your sorry arse. No sense in trying to build a future with a man who's so willing to throw himself down the pit."

Jimmy recoils like he's been slapped. He reaches the bottom of the stairs and stumbles a bit. "Robert wouldn't say this," he says, as if he's reminding himself.

"Of course, I wouldn't. But I'm thinking it. Little Jim Page, what a prize! Throws his life away trying to screw with the natural order. They gave you a second chance, you dumb bastard, and you wasted it!"

Jimmy shoots him a furious glare, but Robert can see the pain burning behind his eyes. Robert doesn't like being a passenger in his own body, especially not when something twisted and cruel is at the helm. But he can't fight what's in control, just has to hold on and hope Jimmy's strong enough to take it.

Jimmy moves to the bookshelves and plucks another volume from the shelf. He flips the book open. When he finds the proper page, he cradles the book in his hands and steps closer.

"I want to be released from the contract," Jimmy says.

"And people in Hell want ice water. We don't always get what we want. You should know that better than anyone."

A sad smile tugs at the corner of Jimmy's mouth. He doesn't disagree. "Who's to say I won't just exorcise you here?"

The demon laughs. "You can't run forever, Pagey." Fire roils in Robert's stomach at the sound of his nickname for Jimmy twisted on the lips of this cruel spectre. "You can line your home with goofer dust, hang Devil's Shoestring above the door, but eventually you're gonna have to face fate. You sold your soul, and it's come due."

Jimmy quirks his mouth to the side. "Well, only one of us is standing underneath a Devil's Trap, so it looks as though I've got the bargaining power here."

Robert feels joy explode in his chest. The demon looks up at the ceiling, sees he's right in the center of the sigil. "Bugger."

Thunder roars in the sky, and Robert thinks he hears a faint howling sound.

"You call off the hounds and let me go," Jimmy says, moving closer. "Then I'll let  _you_  go."

The demon growls. "Is that really how you want to play this?"

Jimmy purses his lips, thinking it over. "Yes, actually. I'm willing to wait until you change your mind." He turns on his heel.

The demon inside of Robert is powerless under the devil's trap, but words can wound far, far deeper than a blade or bullet. "You wouldn't really let me rot here, would you, Pagey?" It's pure manipulation, and it works, because Jimmy stops and faces him. Robert doesn't know how to reach out or remind Jimmy it's all a charade, that he isn't the one saying these awful things.

Jimmy glances down at the book. " _Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio infernalis adversarii, omnis legio—"_

"Let's talk about this!" the demon screeches. Alien bursts of pain flare up through Robert's body, surging through his broken arm. The wind whistles outside, and the hellhound lunges at the door. Robert is so not okay right now. He feels like he's been lit on fire, tongues of flame licking at his veins.

" _Omnis congregatio et secta diabolica. Ergo draco maledicte et omnis legio diabolica adjuramus te—"_

"Wait!"

Jimmy pauses, looking up from the text like he's being inconvenienced somehow. The burning fades, as if Robert's been dunked in ice.

"You Pages," the demon sighs, "always finding ways to bend the rules."

"It's a family curse," Jimmy says with a half-hearted smirk.

Robert wonders if it really is. How far back does this go? Could demon deals be a common link throughout Jimmy's family tree? It might explain why Jimmy's parents so readily accepted the crossroads deal, though Robert thinks when you're a parent there's no such thing as unbelievably stupid if it means saving your child.

"You'll get your deal. You and your parents will be free to live long, full lives," the demon says. "But if anyone from your accursed bloodline tries to cut a deal, I'll personally skin the whole lot of you: your parents, your boyfriend, your children—"

"Stop talking." Jimmy steps into the devil's trap and crushes his mouth over Robert's, effectively sealing the deal with a kiss. Robert enjoys it more than he ought to, and he's grateful Jimmy's kissing him and not some random demon-possessed stranger. Is that weird? Maybe it's a little weird.

Outside, Robert hears the raucous wind settle and the tides of the Thames calm. The violent pounding outside the door has gone silent. It seems as if they've weathered the storm, lived to see another day.

"Do I have any reason to trust you?" Jimmy asks.

"Why would I double-cross you, Pagey? You're the one with the  _Rituale Romanum_  in your hands."

Jimmy shuts the book and sets his jaw in a particularly pouty way. He heads back to the table, places the book down and grabs the knife there.

"You're going to let me out now, aren't you?" the demon prods.

Jimmy strides back to the devil's trap and throws the knife at the ceiling. The blade lodges into the circle, breaking the trap. Robert isn't sure if the demon's just going to vacate his body or if Jimmy will have to finish that exorcism.

He doesn't have much time to think about it, because the world disappears, and darkness takes its place.


	9. Chapter 9

The next few days pass by in a hazy, drugged-up blur. Robert vaguely remembers waking up in a hospital, where he had surgery to stick the cracked ends of his arm bones back in place. Bonzo picked him and Jimmy up from the hospital and drove them to Jimmy's boathouse. There's cloudy memories of Bonzo yelling at Jimmy once they got there—"the bloody place is falling apart!"—and insisting that Robert wouldn't convalesce in an "endangerment to his recovery," to which Jimmy took an unreasonable amount of offense. Robert dozed off in the back seat after that, and he spent the next couple days in a cozy, warm bed that smells like home.

Consciousness comes in hazy fragments, because he remembers waking up every now and then for food and water. The pain meds keep him from thinking about the dull throb in his arm, and also keep him zonked out for a good while. The next time Robert wakes up Bonzo's standing by his bedside.

Of course, the first thing on Robert's mind is, "Where's Pagey?"

Bonzo huffs annoyance. "Good to see you too."

"What're you doin' here?" Robert mumbles, rubbing his eyes.

"I live here."

Robert glances around the room and recognizes the leather armchair in the corner, the circular mirror on the bureau with familiar Polaroids tucked into the frame, the plaid duvet he's wrapped in. This is his bedroom. He doesn't remember going back to the flat, doesn't know if his hazy memories of Jimmy at his bedside are real or imagined.

"Where's Jimmy?" Robert asks again. Expecting Robert to not want to know Jimmy's whereabouts is like expecting a miracle.

"He went out on errands. He'll be back."

"My boyfriend is not your personal errand boy," Robert snipes. But it's not like he can blame Bonzo for disliking the guy; Bonzo hasn't seen the sweet, sensitive, loving side of Jimmy. All he's seen is suspicion and secrecy. And Robert never broke any bones or ended up in the hospital until Jimmy came along. So there's that.

"I didn't send him out," Bonzo says with a sigh, as if that would be highly uncharacteristic of him. "He said he had to pick up a few things. I guess he feels guilty about your arm."

God, all of this must be hell on Jimmy. What could he be thinking now? "He saved me," Robert murmurs. "When I fell into the water, he pulled me to safety. I don't know how he did it. He told me he couldn't swim."

Bonzo folds his arms over his chest, like yielding to Robert's plea will taint him in some way. "One good deed doesn't change who he is."

Robert sighs and drops his head back against the pillows, which, whoa,  _dizzy_. He wishes he could tell Bonzo the truth, about how Jimmy sold his soul for his parents' sake, because if Bonzo knew what Robert knows... "You barely even  _know_  who he is."

"Honestly, Robert, what do you even see in him? What is the attraction?" Bonzo asks. "Because all I see is intolerable secrecy and a muffler."

Robert scowls at him.

"He's been here two days, walking around in this"—Bonzo searches for the word—"cloud of guilt, like he feels personally responsible for what happened to you. And that just makes me think, well, maybe he is."

Robert shakes his head and ignores the swirl of nausea it causes. "It was an accident. All of this must be very hard on him. I know you don't like him, but you could stand to be a bit nicer, you know."

Bonzo rolls his eyes. "Fuckin' hippie," he grumbles under his breath. "I'm letting him stay here while you recuperate. How's that for bloody nice?"

"He's staying?  _Here_?" That explains the foggy memories bouncing around in Robert's head. "How did you... ?"

"He might have... dazzled me," Bonzo admits, begrudging. "I guess I see your point about his eyes."

Robert laughs, lets the sound taper off as he looks down at the cast around his left arm. "Won't be able to do much with this for a while," he says.

"Good thing you've got Jimmy," Bonzo says with a smirk, and, holy shit, that was a dirty joke. Maybe Bonzo won't be too difficult to sway into the Page-Plant cult.

While Robert's staring at him, mouth agape, Bonzo says, "By the way, your folks called while you were out."

Oh shit. "You—you didn't tell them, did you?"

"They had to know," Bonzo says, like it's obvious.

Robert shuts his eyes tightly. "Oh God... Please tell me they're not coming here."

"They're on their way now."

Robert groans a sound of agony that has nothing to do with his arm. He just  _knows_  Bonzo did this to get on Mum and Dad's good side. Bloody traitor.

He takes a deep breath, tries to calm himself. "What exactly did you tell them?"

"I didn't tell them anything. Jimmy spoke with them."

That throws Robert for a loop. "Pagey? Why would he—"

Bonzo shrugs. "Guess he wanted to look like the caring, concerned friend."

Robert takes issue with the implication that Jimmy  _isn't_  those things, but he doesn't voice it. Same old argument he's been having with Bonzo since he met Jimmy. "Do you know what he told them?"

"He said the two of you were in an accident and broke your arm."

Yeah, falling off of a balcony and almost drowning doesn't really sound like something Robert would do. Car accidents happen all the time—what better way to explain his injuries?

But it also paints Jimmy pretty badly—obviously Robert's parents won't take too kindly to finding out the driver got out relatively unscathed—unless... Unless Robert takes the blame and claims he was behind the wheel. Sure, he shouldn't have been—no license and all—but clearly he's been punished enough for his lawlessness. Also, he's an adult and his parents can't exactly ground him anymore.

"Did you hear him say who was driving?"

"I'm not quite sure. But, really, you've got a good excuse to be muddy on the details."

Robert hears the distant sound of the front door opening, and he panics. "Is that them?"

An angelic voice sounds from the hallway, growing nearer with each word. "Ah, Sleeping Beauty finally wakes from his slumber."

Bonzo makes a gagging sound and leaves the room.

Robert ignores Bonzo's theatrics, because  _Jimmy's here_. Jimmy steps inside, carrying a black guitar case and dragging a small suitcase behind him. Robert notices a faint limp when Jimmy walks, but he knows better than to mention it.

Jimmy sets his luggage in the corner by the headboard of the bed and sits on the mattress beside Robert. "How do you feel, love?" Jimmy says, laying a hand over Robert's forehead.

"Better, now that you're here." Robert giggles, because Jimmy's wearing a pink t-shirt and jeans in a color slightly more luminous than a supernova. "You look like a salmon swimming upstream."

Jimmy's mouth twitches into a smile, then a full-fledged laugh. "I s'pose John's told you about your parents stopping by."

Robert pouts at him. "You didn't have to tell them, you know." But when Robert thinks about it, it's no surprise; Jimmy clearly values his relationship with his own parents and wants Robert to have the same.

Robert wonders what he would have done if his parents had sold their souls for him. He shudders.

"I thought it was a good preemptive strike," Jimmy explains. "If John had told them first, he would have said I was in the car with you, and they would wonder why I hadn't said anything to them. I'm not the one coming off anesthesia; I've got no excuse."

"You think of everything," Robert says in amazement.

Jimmy's smile has an edge of pain, and Robert doesn't like it. "What about you?" Robert asks. "Are you alright? The deal is off?"

"I'm here, aren't I?"

Robert tugs him closer by his t-shirt, pushes his scarf aside to check for a hidden hex bag or a vial of goofer dust around his neck. "You're clean."

"It's been two days," Jimmy reminds him. "If my number was up, I wouldn't be sitting here with you."

So they're truly safe. "That's good," Robert says, sighing happily. "And your leg?"

"Right as rain. You needn't worry about me. I'm a tough ol' bastard, it seems."

Robert stares at Jimmy's beautiful face. "I never got to thank you."

"For breaking your arm?" Jimmy says with a humorless chuckle.

Robert frowns. "For  _saving my life_. You said you couldn't swim."

"It's not like you were in any shape to do it." Jimmy cradles the hand of Robert's broken arm like it's a wounded baby bird. He breathes out a soft sigh. "I'm so sorry," he murmurs. "If I had just left you alone, none of this would have happened."

"This isn't your fault," Robert says, because it isn't.

Jimmy shakes his head. "You shouldn't have even been there to begin with."

"If I hadn't shown up, you would have just let yourself die." Jimmy glances off, unable to argue with that. But he still looks guilt-ridden and tormented, as if he personally threw Robert into the river. This is ridiculous.

Robert struggles to sit up, uses his good arm to push himself into a sitting position. "Pagey, you're being an arse." He lifts his cast. "Bones heal."

Jimmy's brows knit together. "You wouldn't have anything to—"

Robert silences him by laying a finger over his lips. "Stop it. You're not going to win this one. I love you, and that's that." It frightens Robert how easy it is to admit how much he cares about Jimmy, though a near-death experience kind of puts things in perspective.

Jimmy breathes out a sigh of frustration and drops his gaze to Robert's broken arm. "Robert, once you mess with something like this..." He presses his lips together, trails off.

Robert waits patiently for Jimmy to elaborate—he doesn't. "Something like you?"

Jimmy shakes his head. "Magic and demons and all that. Once you step into that darkness, it never truly leaves you."

"Then I'm past saving, too, aren't I?" Robert says with a shrug.

The corner of Jimmy's mouth pulls into a half-smile, but the bleakness doesn't leave his eyes. "You're an idiot, you know."

"Yes, well, as long as I'm being an idiot, I want to be with you."

That seems to cheer him up, though Robert just  _knows_  Jimmy's still moping underneath it all. But he'll take the smile while it lasts, because when Jimmy smiles it's like the whole world lights up, and Robert wants to warm himself on that for the rest of his days.

From the living room, Robert hears a knock at the front door. An irrational surge of panic floods through him. Jimmy, as if sensing Robert's distress, squeezes his good hand. "It's going to be fine, love," he murmurs. "I'm here until you send me away."

Robert nods, and Jimmy slides his hand away. He can hear his parents' voices talking to Bonzo, then they're heading down the hallway.

Mum comes through the door first, her voice full of love and relief. "Oh, Robert!" She rushes toward him and hugs him gently. "You poor thing! Are you in any pain?"

"Not really," he says. Thank God for painkillers.

Dad's a little more reserved, but the concern is still there. He hugs Robert a bit longer than Mum did, and Robert knows Dad's struggling valiantly not to show weakness here. Dad's never been good at emotional scenes; he's more the type to hold on and never let go than allow his voice to betray him.

"You didn't have to come all the way here," Robert says. "I'm fine, really. Pagey—Jimmy must've overstated the severity of my injuries."

"This must be Jimmy," Mum says, as if just now noticing Jimmy's presence in the room. "You were in the car too, weren't you? Are you alright?"

"Robert got the worst of it," Jimmy says, sounding agonized.

Dad looks at Jimmy. "Thank you for letting us know."

Jimmy shrugs like it's nothing. "I'm sure he would have wanted me to tell you."

Robert lies back and watches Jimmy play the "parent-friendly boyfriend" role to perfection as Mum and Dad interrogate him about the accident. Mum sits at Robert's side and strokes his hair the way she used to when he was much younger. All of this parental doting would be mortifying if Robert wasn't absolutely certain Jimmy loves him.

When it's Robert's turn to answer questions, his parents don't ask about his life prospects or future plans, just curious about his pain level and how long he stayed in the hospital and why they weren't called sooner. Ah, parents.

"Can you boys give us a minute?" Mum asks, casting a glance at Dad and Jimmy.

Dad nods and ducks out of the room, but Jimmy hesitates a bit, looking at Robert for reassurance. "You'll be alright?" he asks.

Robert breathes out a laugh. "Go on."

Jimmy smiles at him and leaves them alone.

Once he's gone, Mum says in a low voice, "You didn't tell me you had such good friends."

Robert almost sighs in relief. He'd been worried Mum would find some sort of fault in Jimmy, but apparently Jimmy's passed one half of the parental-approval test.

Then Mum says something Robert's not expecting at all: "If you don't mind me saying, I think that boy is in love with you."

"What?" Robert gasps out, his voice going shaky. It's that obvious?

He realizes in horror that if she can tell how Jimmy feels about Robert, then she absolutely knows how Robert feels... A cold shiver runs through him and makes him shudder.

"Oh, luv, don't worry," Mum says, laying a hand on his shoulder. "He seems like a perfect gentleman; I can't see him ever saying a word about it."

Robert wonders if Jimmy would have ever made his feelings known had he not had a death sentence hanging over his head.

"Then why..." Robert's good hand flutters uselessly before dropping back into his lap.

"Because you'll have to be the one to say something to him."

His brain swirls with confusion. "It doesn't bother me. I mean, if he does fancy me, I'm very flattered."

Mum gives Robert her patented motherly stare; Robert feels his insides shrivel up and die. "You think I don't see the way you look at him? A mother knows."

Robert swallows, his mouth suddenly dry. He's never felt more like a child than he does right now. He shuts his eyes and braces himself for the inevitable lecture about how these "feelings" are wrong and impure and how he's absolutely going to Hell for even thinking—

Mum curves a hand around Robert's cheek. "You should tell him how you feel. Life's too short, you know."

Robert doesn't know why that makes him start crying. He wipes his tears away with his good hand, feeling foolish and vulnerable. He swallows, gets his voice under control when he says, "Don't tell Dad..."

"I won't. Though I think he's so happy you're alive he's willing to overlook pretty much anything right now."

Robert smiles, wipes his newly-wet eyes again. "I hope so."

"Don't you worry your head over him," Mum says. "You tell Jimmy how you feel."

Robert doesn't tell her he already has.

Mum and Dad keep their visit short so Robert can rest, which Robert's grateful for, because he's been yawning for the last ten minutes or so. He closes his eyes once his parents have said their goodbyes, then he hears soft footsteps on the carpet. The sound grows louder until it's practically right beside him.

Robert blinks an eye open. Jimmy's rummaging through his suitcase for something. "What're you doing?" Robert asks.

Jimmy pulls a book out from the bag. "Thought I might do some reading while I wait for you to wake up." He holds the book up so Robert can see the cover. Robert immediately recognizes the title:  _Swan Song_.

"The last book?" he gasps, amazed. "How long have I been out?"

"Dating Nelson Storm has its privileges," Jimmy says around a smirk. "It's an advance copy, love." Robert doesn't think the tingle at the base of his spine when Jimmy calls him that will ever fade; maybe it isn't supposed to.

"I wanna read it," Robert whines, giving precisely zero fucks how whiny that sounds.

"You need your rest."

Robert rolls his eyes and throws out his good hand. "Give."

"You're awfully demanding for an injured person," Jimmy says with love, placing the book in Robert's hand. "I brought it for you, anyway."

Robert flips through the pages. "I wish it didn't have to end."

"Every ending is just a new beginning." Jimmy brings his acoustic guitar out from its case. He sits on the bed, plucks a few strings in a way that enraptures Robert. "Since the deal is broken, I can start playing guitar again, you know, for real. There's something I've always wanted to do, and I think you'll want to be a part of it." He tucks a lock of hair behind his ear, his go-to gesture when he's nervous. "For a while I've had the idea in my head of forming a blues rock group, something that could really catch fire. And, well, since I met you, I think I've found the missing pieces."

Jimmy speaks with such focused intensity it's hard not to fall under his spell a little. "Yeah?"

"Imagine me on guitar, you on vocals, your mate John on drums, and I know a bass player from my session days."

Robert's used to flitting around from band to band, never making much of an impact on the music scene, but he thinks Jimmy could turn anything into a phenomenon. He's entirely content with being in Jimmy's shadow if it means getting to perform and share the spotlight with him.

"Of course, convincing John to put aside his disapproval of our relationship will be difficult," Jimmy says, almost as an aside.

"He'll get over it," Robert reassures him. "He's warming to you, you know."

"Is he? Did he tell you that?"

"Not in so many words. He said you dazzled him."

Jimmy's nose crinkles when he chuckles. "Really?" He leans closer and tilts his head, his lips curling into a smile. "Do I dazzle you?"

There ought to be a law against blushing as hard as Robert's doing right now. He glances away, but his traitorous complexion and smile betray him. "Mmm, just a bit."

"Well then, I promise only to use my powers for good." Jimmy grins and covers Robert's mouth with his own. Robert still can't get over the fact that kissing is a thing they can just  _do_  now. Jimmy licks into Robert's mouth, and Robert groans happily in response, his cast-free hand reaching up to tangle in Jimmy's wild hair.

"This is very good," Robert murmurs around the kiss.

Jimmy hums an affirmative sound against his lips. "I thought it might be. You think John could be persuaded this way?"

Robert breaks into spurts of laughter, and before he can catch his breath a voice says from the doorway, "It's Bonzo, mate."

Jimmy's head whirls around as if attached to a string. He sees Bonzo standing there, all hulking and terrifying, and fusses with his hair, his cheeks a flushed pink. "I—I didn't see you there."

"'Course you didn't," Bonzo says with a knowing smirk. "You're in his mouth more than his dentist."

"I have excellent teeth," Robert argues, because of course that's the part he has issue with.

Jimmy pushes a chunk of hair behind his ear. "I, um, I was wondering if you'd consider joining on drums for the band we're thinking of putting together." It's a rare occasion that Robert hears a flustered Jimmy; it's a thing to be treasured, because he sounds fucking adorable. "Robert's quite excited for it."

Robert wants to be offended that Jimmy's just throwing the blame onto him, but when he thinks about it's actually kind of sweet; Jimmy knew Bonzo would be more pliable to an idea Robert's got enthusiasm for.

"Letting you stay with him isn't enough?" Bonzo huffs, like Jimmy's asking for a kidney.

Robert thinks Bonzo just needs a push in the proper direction. "That's right, you haven't heard Pagey play, have you?" He gives Jimmy an eager look, flicking his gaze from Jimmy's eyes to the guitar he's cradling on his lap. "Play something for him."

Robert never gets tired of Jimmy's inspired guitar work. Jimmy creates perfection with his fingers, casually plucking and strumming a soft melody that slowly grows into something more complex. If he's nervous, he never shows it. Robert's enraptured by Jimmy's impeccable skill, and when he risks a cursory glance at Bonzo he sees the big lug actually smiling.

"It's magic, isn't it?" Robert breathes out when Jimmy's finished.

Bonzo's not one to gush, but the look on his face tells Robert they're in agreement. "What about bass guitar?"

"I've a mate from my session days I could ring," Jimmy says. "He'd be happy to do it, unless he's got other arrangements."

Bonzo nods in consideration. "I'll think it over," he says, turning away. "I've got to meet with Pat for dinner. Can I trust you two to behave yourselves?"

Robert nods, enthusiastic. Jimmy gives Bonzo a wide-eyed, honest look; Robert's a little dazzled, and he's not even looking directly at it.

Bonzo's moustache twitches to the side. "If he's any worse off when I get back," he threatens Jimmy.

Jimmy nods demurely, like he's being scolded by a grammar school headmaster. "He'll be fine."

Bonzo huffs in deliberation. He's hovering, really, because he's supposed to keep Robert's dumb ass out of trouble, but he wasn't there when it counted.

But Robert knows if Bonzo didn't trust Jimmy in some capacity they wouldn't be having this conversation. "Really, go enjoy yourself," Robert coaxes. "I'll have a splendid recovery with Nurse Pagey here."

Jimmy flushes pink, and Bonzo just frowns. "I really hope that doesn't involve any fuckin' costumes," he grumbles, shaking his head like Robert's the cause of all his misery. And, yeah, he probably is; Robert feels guilty enough about it for both of them.

When the front door shuts, Robert says, "Don't worry about him. That's the second sex joke he's made about us today. I think he'll warm up to you quite nicely."

Jimmy chuckles and balances the guitar against the nightstand. "I suppose I ought to put more trust in your foolish optimism."

"It's not so foolish now, is it?"

Jimmy settles in alongside Robert, lying beside him in the bed. Robert's inner skank reminds him that he's in bed with Jimmy, they're alone, and there aren't a lot of sex acts hindered by a broken arm.

"You've certainly enlightened me," Jimmy admits, plucking the book from Robert's hands. "And since you've left such an irrevocable mark on my soul, I think a thank you is in order." He opens the book to the first page and pushes a finger through the crease. "As long as I'm here, I'm going to read you the last book."

Robert glances at the mass of pages. "It's quite long."

"Well, not in one sitting, obviously. But are you really going to refuse listening to the dulcet tones of your boyfriend reading you the final book in your favorite series?" Jimmy lifts an eyebrow at him.

Robert grins—Jimmy's his  _boyfriend_ —and lays his good hand over Jimmy's thigh. He doesn't fail to notice the way blood pools beneath Jimmy's cheeks. "I'm not refusing, just postponing. I'm sure it's a real  _page_ -turner."

Jimmy glares at him. "I regret laughing at that joke the first time. Clearly, I've given you the wrong impression."

Robert's hand skims up Jimmy's thigh, impossibly close to his crotch and all the goodness there. Jimmy swallows and breathes in a soft sound of want. Robert leans in, presses a kiss to the line of his jaw. Jimmy makes a "hnnngh" noise in his throat that sounds more like "touch my dick, you magnificent bastard."

"C'mon, babe," Robert coaxes. "We're here and we're alive and we're in love. What better reason is there?"

With great dissatisfaction, Jimmy removes Robert's hand from his thigh. "I'd like to be on Bonzo's good side. And I doubt he'd appreciate coming home and finding us mid-fuck."

Robert's mouth curls into a grin. "I love it when you swear. You're like a corrupt choirboy."

Jimmy laughs and settles against him. "Corruption is hardly the impression I want to give off if I've any hope of Bonzo joining our group."

"He already thinks you're no good," Robert grumbles. "At least give him a reason."

"You're getting your damn bedtime story, you randy idiot," Jimmy says around the bells of his laughter. "I've waited a long time for this. Don't spoil it for me."

Robert figures he could do a hell of a lot worse than listening to Jimmy's velvet voice, so he doesn't raise complaint when Jimmy opens up the book again and starts to read. Because this—sans the broken arm—is heaven. He leans against Jimmy's shoulder, closes his eyes, and smiles.

* * *

_Epilogue_

Robert fusses with the throat of his turtleneck. He feels out of place and ten different kinds of goofy, though Jimmy's spent most of their train ride into Epsom assuring Robert he looks fine. But Robert thinks he's got a valid reason to worry about his appearance, considering he's meeting Jimmy's parents in mere minutes.

"You told them, right?" Robert asks him for what's probably the fourth time this evening. "About us? I mean, they know we're..." He gestures in a way that's supposed to encompass everything they are. It looks a little dirty with just one hand, and Jimmy touches Robert's arm to make him stop.

"Yes, they know," Jimmy says with an exasperated sigh. Robert feels no sympathy for him; Jimmy knew what he was signing on for when he agreed to date Robert.

"You told them I'm your boyfriend?" He still can't fucking believe that that's what they are.

"I told them I was bringing a very dear friend of mine they might want to meet."

Robert halts his stride, standing stunned on the sidewalk. This is brand new information. "You what? That sounds quite open to interpretation."

Jimmy turns around and sees Robert standing there like a doofus. "It really isn't," he says, grabbing Robert's good hand and pulling him along, forcing him to match Jimmy's stride. Jimmy's still got a bit of a limp, which Robert really hopes isn't permanent. "I haven't brought anyone 'round to their place in years. They understand the implications."

"And they're okay with it?"

Jimmy sighs like Robert is the  _worst_. "No, I thought I'd make us both miserable tonight." Mr. Sarcasm. "Of course they are."

"No wonder you sold your soul for them," Robert jokes, then immediately regrets it, because he's not sure if he can poke fun at that. He thinks they ought to be able to joke about it a bit, considering they got out alive and well.

Jimmy leads him up the walkway of a quaint little house. Robert hears his heartbeat in his ears. He's not ready for this. He digs his heels in and brings them to a stop. "Pagey, wait—wait—what if—what if they don't like me?" He's not sure it's possible to sound more pathetic. "What if they take one look at me and think I'm not good enough for you?"

Jimmy's shaking his head and smiling in that "you're adorably stupid" way of his. He squeezes Robert's hand and says, "They're going to love you, because I do."

Robert gapes as Jimmy leads him up the small staircase leading to the front door. "You shouldn't say things like that. I might believe you."

Jimmy rings the doorbell. "Just wait, love. When we're rich and famous, you'll look back and wonder why you ever felt insignificant."

Robert opens his mouth to argue with that when the front door swings open. His palms start sweating, because, holy shit, he's meeting his impossibly perfect boyfriend's parents, who have also been exalted as impossibly perfect. He's never going to live up to whatever expectations Jimmy's put in their head. This is going to be horrible.

Mrs. Page greets them at the door, pulling Jimmy into a motherly hug. "Oh, it's so good to see you, dear!" She peers over his shoulder and sees Robert standing there. "And this must be Robert!"

He smiles and steps forward, offering up his good hand. "It's nice to finally meet you."

Mrs. Page opts to pull him in for a hug instead, taking care not to crush his cast-wrapped arm. "And you as well! Please, come in!"

They walk inside a spacious, cozy living room, and a savory aroma hangs in the air. Robert can't place the smell, but whatever it is, he wants it in his mouth  _now_.

Mr. Page emerges from the kitchen and greets them. "So, Robert, huh?" He sizes Robert up, scratching his chin as if in deep thought. Robert fights the urge to fidget under the scrutiny. "What happened to your arm?"

"We were in an accident," Robert says simply.

"' _We'_?" Mrs. Page panics, rushing to Jimmy's side and taking his face in her hands. "My goodness, are you all right?" Clearly, Jimmy's omitted a few crucial details here.

"I'm fine," Jimmy assures them, blushing under the attention. "Robert got the worst of it."

Mr. and Mrs. Page stare at Robert in awe. Robert wiggles his fingers through his cast. "I'm alright, really. I probably wouldn't have made it if it weren't for Jimmy."

Jimmy rolls his eyes like Robert's being melodramatic, but there's a hint of a smile on his lips. His gaze drifts to the kitchen. "I see you started cooking without Robert. He's very disappointed about that."

Robert whirls to look at Jimmy. "What?"

Mr. Page claps a hand on Robert's good shoulder. "He can help with the pie. Right?"

Robert has no idea what to do here, but Jimmy seems like he's intent on humiliating him tonight, and Robert really wants to make a good impression here, so he says, "Y—yeah, of course."

Jimmy suppresses a small giggle. Bastard. He totally planned this.

"Wonderful!" Mr. Page leads Robert into the kitchen. "You can help me chop the apples."

So, the night's going to end in horrible injury. Fantastic. Like he's not injured enough. Jimmy's going to fucking pay for this.

"Don't hurt yourself!" Jimmy calls to him, teasing. Prick.

Jimmy watches Robert disappear into the kitchen. He's smiling and he doesn't even know why; Robert just has that effect on him, it seems.

Mrs. Page lays a hand on her son's arm. "How badly were you hurt?" Like she knows all about Jimmy's habit of concealing his own pain.

He shakes his head. "Just some scrapes on my leg. It's nothing serious."

"Of course it's not. You walk in here with a limp, you think your own mother doesn't notice?"

Jimmy's past the point of being surprised about that.

"Are you changing your bandages? Preventing infection is important, you know. I worked for a doctor; I know these things."

"Yes, Mum, I know." Jimmy closes his eyes so he can affectionately roll them.

"You're probably doing it all wrong anyway. Let me." There's no point in arguing with her, because she's taking his hand and leading him into the guest bathroom. She wants to dote on her son, as well as assess the damage. Jimmy can respect—and understand—that.

Jimmy sits on the toilet lid, and Mrs. Page digs through the cabinet drawers for the gauze. "So, tell me about Robert." It sounds like she's trying for casual, but the question comes out like they're at an all-girls slumber party and she heard Jimmy has a crush.

Jimmy pushes his hair out of his face. "What would you like to know?"

"He's more than just a mate, isn't he?"

Jimmy doesn't bother denying it; she wouldn't ask if she wasn't certain. "He is."

"He  _is_  very good-looking," she says, setting the gauze and peroxide on the floor. "If I were twenty years younger..."

Jimmy is  _so_  glad Robert's not here for this conversation. "I still don't think he would be interested."

She kneels at his feet. "Alright, Mr. Smart-Mouth, where's the damage?"

Jimmy lays a hand on the leg in question. Mrs. Page rolls up the leg of his trousers, tsk-tsking under her breath at his shoddy bandage job. "See, you're never too old to need your Mum."

Jimmy smiles to himself. Mrs. Page unravels the bandages, her hands stilling and eyes blinking when his wounds are revealed. Because she  _knows_. She knows this wasn't from a car wreck. It's just like Robert warned him: his parents know they're still alive because someone meddled in their deal.

She looks up at him, her eyes blinking away misty tears. "What happened?"

Jimmy wets his mouth. "It's all right. It's over."

She trails her fingers over his injured leg with a feather-light touch. "Tell me," she says, her voice quaking.

With tears running down his cheeks, Jimmy says, "In 1964, Neil Christian told me that he helped you and Dad make a crossroads deal."

Mrs. Page lets out a small cry, smothering it with her hand.

"So I made my own."

The words send her reeling despite being prepared for them. She takes the blow, staggers, and cries. Jimmy feels like crying, too.

"How could you do that?"

Jimmy hears the catch in his voice when he says, "I couldn't let you die. You're my parents."

"And you're our son!" Mrs. Page protests. "There's nothing we wouldn't do for you."

Hell of a way to prove it. Jimmy wipes his eyes with a hand. He feels raw and exposed, like a nerve. "Robert saved me, you know. He was with me the day I was supposed to—" Jimmy stops, starts over. "Well, I told him the truth, and he figured out a way to break the deal."

"How?" Mrs. Page asks, still in somewhat of a daze.

"He let himself get possessed by a demon so he could stand under a devil's trap. Then I bartered the demon's freedom for my soul."

Mrs. Page shakes her head. Jimmy stares down at the woman he loves like no other and feels his heart break anew. Robert was right; he'd been selfish. His parents sold their souls for him, and he turned around and negated the entire deal. Children are meant to live long lives; for a child to die before his parents is a tragedy.

Mrs. Page looks at him. "James Patrick Page, you marry that boy."

Jimmy laughs, the sound foreign in his throat. Happy tears squeeze from his eyes, and he says, "I intend to."

* * *

  _Being deeply loved by someone gives you strength, while loving someone deeply gives you courage._

~ Lao Tzu

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> if you enjoyed the fic, why not listen to the fanmix? [[x](http://8tracks.com/sodium-amytal/got-a-shadow-around-my-soul)]


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